


Relapse

by radculas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Inception-esque mindfuckery, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Linear Narrative, Self-Harm, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5355893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radculas/pseuds/radculas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock kept himself clean for years.<br/>He even has a friend called John Watson.<br/>All is fine until Moriarty plunges Sherlock back into relapse.<br/>Post-Baskerville. Warnings: Drug abuse<br/>Tie-in to Sherlock's drug use in HLV.</p><p>Originally uploaded on FF. Revised and edited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm incredibly sorry for spitting out a lot of unfinished work. I will finish all of them!  
> In the mean time, in order to get over my writer's block, I will spend the next few weeks going back to my old works, improve them, and re-post them here.  
> This story was written 3 years ago.  
> If you have come across this story somewhere else, I hope that it has improved in some way or another!

The horrid day began as one of those rare peaceful mornings. They solved a case two days ago, and the residents of 221B Baker Street were given the much appreciated moment of peace, comfort, and silence. John pondered how to write his new installment in his blog. Sherlock on the other hand, was trying to keep himself busy by rummaging for a new experiment subject. He needed something substantially interesting to preoccupy him until a new client emerged.

John peeked over his newspaper and gazed at the book shelf placed along the wall, behind Sherlock's favorite leather chair. Sherlock seemed to looking for a book because he's been hovering there for quite a while.

"What are you looking for?"

Sherlock, dressed in his expensive blue gown, was leaning against the bookshelf with his head bowed down. His shoulder was heaving.

"Sherlock?" He called out gain, slightly alarmed by the sight. John frowned and placed the papers to the side and took a step toward Sherlock. The tall, lanky man was gripping the edge of the bookshelf firmly with his shaking hands. His long fingers were tensed and the knuckles white. John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, and tried to peel him away from the bookshelf. The tall man's face was blocked from John's view. John's instinct as a man of medicine immediately kicked in. As John tugged at the lean figure, Sherlock's knees buckled and he tumbled down to the floor. John caught him just in time before he hit the ground.

"Sherlock," John called out as he placed his free hand on Sherlock's forehead. It was burning hot. Drops of sweat were forming on his forehead and neck. He was paler than usual, and his teeth were chattering. Lips unhealthily purple, brows furrowed in pain, and his eyes unfocused.

"Sherlock” Sherlock's clouded eyes shifted towards John. The former army doctor carefully lowered Sherlock's head down on the carpet floor. Shallow breathing, incredibly high pulse, dilated pupils, unnatural perspiration, high temperature, and twitching hands… John reached for his mobile phone, but Sherlock's clammy hands flew at John's arm and grasped it tightly.  He squeezed John's wrist so hard that, John had to grit his teeth from the pain.

"Alright, alright," John yelped. "Don't worry, I'm just going to get help." And started punching the numbers on his phone hastily but Sherlock shook his head and pulled John's phone down desperately.

"Don't."

John yanked the phone free from Sherlock's grasp.

"Don't be ridiculous, this is serious Sherlock. I may be a doctor but I can't treat you if I don't know what's happening to your body. Whatever this is, it isn't normal." Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head again. Beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His hair matted heavily over his forehead. He opened his mouth and murmured something weakly. John frowned.

"What?" he said and leaned closer to Sherlock's mouth. The detective shuddered and said weakly,

"Withdrawal."

John straightened up.

"You WHAT?"

…

Two days ago

Sherlock raced through the vast, abandoned warehouse, with a torch in one hand and a Sig Sauer in the other. The homicide took place just half an hour ago.  A young woman was found dead and was identified as the latest victim of a serial killing spree that Sherlock was investigating with Scotland Yard. As Lestrade’s team swept the crime scene, Sherlock grabbed John and dashed out to pursue the culprit.

Sherlock was confident as to where the killer had run off to. They caught up with a man matching the killer’s profile a few blocks away from the port and followed him from there. John was searching another warehouse on the south of the one Sherlock was in. The killer must be hiding in either one of the warehouses. Sherlock was confident that he had the killer cornered. It was only a matter of time before he was caught. There was nowhere to run. Sherlock had locked the only exit door to the warehouse from the inside with a padlock and the only key was inside his coat pocket.

Sherlock knocked over card board boxes filled with dusty rubbish. He scanned the floor for fresh foot prints but the cement was covered in dust. He switched his gaze upward and pointed his flash light to his left.

"You're trapped in here. You might as well give up and save some energy."

There was no reply. He edged closer to the center of the warehouse. He strained his ears. Just then, there was a large bang from behind him. Sherlock ducked. Someone had shot at him. The bullet barely missed Sherlock and skid into one of the bulky luggage. Head bowed down, Sherlock thrust his gun in front of him and ran to the far corner for better cover. Crouching behind a large shelf, he turned off his torch and strained his ears again. The only source of light was the faint moonlight leaking in from the slim windows high above.

Careful not to make any noise, he peeked over the edge of the shelf. Nothing. He stood there for a while for what felt like minutes when he heard a clunk to his right. He jerked his head to the direction of the noise when suddenly something grabbed Sherlock's neck from behind. The detective gawked and dropped his gun and torch. His hands flew to his neck to pry the attacker’s hands away. He bent his back to ease the strain. He and the unknown figure bumped into a wall and the two fell down with a small huff. Sherlock scrambled across the dark, icy cement floor, towards the Sig Sauer on the floor. Before he could reach it, a hand grabbed Sherlock's ankle and pulled him back. Another hand aggressively grabbed the back of Sherlock's coat collar and flipped him over on his back. Light flashed into his face as the figure mounted on top of Sherlock. Sherlock covered his eyes with his free hand. As his eyes grew accustomed to the bright light, he saw the face of the assaulter and froze. Jim Moriarty was beaming down at him with blazing eyes.

For a moment, Sherlock's face was frozen with surprise. Then, it gradually transformed into genuine hatred. His silver-blue eyes shined against the light and coldly glinted at Moriarty. The consulting criminal merely chimed "Hi" and steadied his gun at Sherlock's face. "You got the wrong warehouse."

"I knew those killing methods were too clever." Sherlock muttered more to himself than to Moriarty. Jim Moriarty’s smile widened.

"I'm glad you came to this warehouse, Sherlock. It makes things easier. If John Watson came instead, I would have had to go through all the troubles of knocking him out, kidnapping him, strap him up with bombs, contact you, and yadda yadda. You know the drill."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked though he had a general idea of what was going to happen.

Moriarty licked his lips, tilted his head slightly to his right, and gazed down at Sherlock with smug look on his face.

"I had a little chat with your brother while you were running around in Baskerville." He leaned forward a little. "Interesting business by the way, fear toxin. What was it like?"

Sherlock didn't reply. His lips were drawn tight. Looking slightly disappointed, Moriarty decided to move on.

"I heard some interesting things about you, Sherlock."

The detective didn't change his expression. Moriarty shifted his hazel eyes down toward Sherlock's left arm. Careful not to lower his gun’s aim, Moriarty placed the flashlight to his side and reached for Sherlock's left arm. Sherlock jerked his arm away. The consulting criminal raised his eyebrows and chucked his chin at the gun. Sherlock breathed in as Moriarty teasingly rolled up Sherlock's sleeve. He put the torch between his teeth and examined the detective's pale arm. A vile smile curled up as he saw Sherlock's arm marked with old scars from his youthful years.

"I have a little present for you." Moriarty said merrily and tucked his gun into his back pocket. Sherlock thrust his arms up to push Moriarty away but the criminal hit the side of Sherlock's head with his torch. There was a dull thud and Sherlock's eyes watered. His ear, where the torch had struck, pounded and burned.

"Gosh, calm down, boy." Moriarty chided and pulled out a small black rectangular box from his jacket pocket. It was about the size of a television remote controller. Sherlock blinked the tears out of his eyes and stared at the box as Moriarty flipped it open. There was an injection needle inside it. Sherlock froze. Moriarty placed the torch between his teeth again and his flicked the injection needle to get rid of the bubbles in the syringe. Sherlock squirmed and thrashed his legs but the consulting criminal squeezed his knees so tight that Sherlock grimaced in pain. Moriarty showed the syringe triumphantly to Sherlock.

"Say hi to your old friend."

Sherlock stared at the liquid for a few seconds before saying uninterestedly,

"I'm clean. I don't even smoke."

"Funny. Do clean people have danger nights?" Moriarty sniffed. Sherlock was well aware of the power of addiction. Once an addict, you are never free from its grip. But Sherlock had to maintain a façade of indifference. "It's heroin in case you're curious." Moriarty explained.

"I don't care." Sherlock said flatly. "It's behind me."

"Oh come on, let's see about that now, shall we?"

"No." Sherlock squirmed again. Moriarty grabbed Sherlock's unrolled armed but he shook it away from Moriarty's grasp.

"I made this especially for you. It's from the same dealers that you used to get it from. I even researched the right amount so you can be in the sweet spot. I know you've got some high tolerance." Moriarty explained through his clenched teeth as he fought Sherlock's flailing limbs. Madness danced in his eyes. "Isn't that sweet?" He exclaimed as he finally managed to pin Sherlock down.

"You think you can get to me by feeding me drugs?" Sherlock laughed.

"Johnny boy's probably caught the killer by now. Then case closed, Sherlock. What are you going to do tomorrow? Any plans? I'm sure Lestrade will be busy with paperwork for a while. Clients only at an average of one or two a week. Can you handle your spare time without these for a week?" Moriarty flicked his eyes toward the injection in his hand provokingly.

"I'll keep myself busy."

"Well, we’ll see.” Moriarty smirked. Sherlock's eyes wavered. He gave another wriggle in hopes of escaping Moriarty's grip, but the consulting criminal had enough chatting. He grabbed the top of Sherlock's hair roughly and pushed it roughly against the concrete floor. There was another dull thud and for the second time tonight, Sherlock saw sparks swim in his eyes along with tears. The bridge of his nose stung as the pain traveled from the back of his head to his brain. Sherlock thought he was going to black out, but he managed to hang on. Moriarty pinned Sherlock’s bare arm down and lowered the needle toward it. There was a sharp stinging sensation as the needle puncture Sherlock’s skin and vein.

 _Moriarty would make a bloody rubbish nurse._   Sherlock thought vaguely as the drug was plunged in. This wasn't happening to him. Sherlock clenched his teeth. There was a moment of silence. Moriarty slowly pulled the needle and stored the box back into his pocket. He let go of Sherlock's arm. The detective turned straight back to Moriarty with hate in his eyes. Sherlock’s breathing was normal. His eyes were clear. Moriarty wondered if he injected the right substance.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock winced, inhaled sharply, and shuddered. The drug had kicked in. The detective tried to fight off the drug by shaking his head and breathing deeply through his nose but Moriarty can already see his long fingers starting to tremble. Despite his efforts to keep his breathing steady, it came out in short huffs. An orgasmic sensation of warmth and dizziness swept over Sherlock and he had to turn sideways to press his cheek against the cool cement. The sensation revived the nostalgic days that he tried to delete from his brain years ago. The cement felt as if it was melting around him. Moriarty smiled smugly as he witnessed Sherlock’s disappearing composure.

Sherlock opened his eyes wide and tried to lift himself up. He couldn't succumb to this. But Moriarty gently eased Sherlock down and rummaged through the detective's coat pocket. He pulled out what he wanted; the keys to open the padlock.

"Bye" he said with a charming smile and walked towards the door, singing merrily,

"Sherlock Holmes is falling down, falling down, Sherlock Holmes is falling down, my fair Watson." And as he chuckled to himself, Moriarty opened the door and left.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock quietly combats the effect of the drug.  
> John and Lestrade have no clue.

Left in the darkness, Sherlock's consciousness drifted towards the void. The consulting detective groaned as somehow managed to roll to his side. His heart was beating hard against his chest and his lungs felt like they shrunk smaller every time he inhaled. His limbs felt like they were underwater, floating, and incapable of quick response. The nostalgic sensation revived a part of Sherlock that he thought was long dead. It started off as a small shadowy figure in the corner of his mind.

_No, go back where you came from. I don't need you anymore. I don't want you anymore._

Sherlock commanded in his head. He shut his eyes tight. The shadow grew bigger and started to wrap its dark grasp around the rest of Sherlock's consciousness. The sensation sent an awkward tingle through Sherlock's brain. He used to consider this experience as joy back then, but now, he knew better. The sane part of Sherlock, the composed, practical side of him demanded to regain his control.

_Ignore it. You know this is all a fake. Get yourself together._

Sherlock twitched his fingers and drew it closer to his body. He rummaged around to find out which side was down and which side was up. Gravity left Sherlock. He was floating. The cement floor had vanished.

_You have things to do. You need to find John. See if he's okay._

Sherlock rolled on his stomach. He opened his eyes and looked up. Now he felt as if he was in a rocking boat. The surface of the cement floor swayed and rippled. He pushed against the floor. His upper body slowly lifted but before his arms could stretch fully, the muscles liquefied. The growing shadow told his body to relax. Sherlock fell back flat onto the ground.

_If I relax my body once, maybe this will all disappear. I might gain control._

He reasoned and slowly shut his eyes. The shadow grew even larger and started to intrude the most secure part of his mind. Its large hands started to tweak the lock leading to his mind palace. A faint echoed in his head desperately.

_It's a trick. You're falling for it Sherlock._

Sherlock knew it was a trick. Of course he did. The drug was rendering him into an idiot. He knew what was taking over him, but strangely, he felt falling for it wasn't so bad after all. He closed his eyes. The shadow broke into his mind palace, flooding through the entrance door, heading straight at the last untainted part of Sherlock.

_You can't do this to me. Not again. Not to me, not to Mycroft, not to Lestrade, not to Mrs. Hudson, not to John…_

The shadow grasped the logical Sherlock. The shadow solidified and finally revealed its form. Its hazel eyes twinkled. His trim dark blue suit jacket, round collar, slick black hair. Sherlock knew it all too well.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He grit his teeth.

_Fight it off, Sherlock._

The voice was grew fainter as Moriarty clasped its hands around the Sherlock inside his head. Another wave of warmth ran through his body. It felt so calm, so comfortable, no pride, no mind games, no need to prove his intellect, nothing.

_Can you hear me?_

The voice echoed. Sherlock's mouth twitched. He lifted himself up and slowly came to a kneeling position. Then, he placed a hand on his knee and heaved. The voice grew slightly louder.

_Get up, get up._

Sherlock clasped the edge of the shelf. Another wave. This time stronger. He exhaled sharply. A drop of sweat fell from his chin. It splashed to the cement floor. The Moriarty in his head looked around at him and smiled. Dragging the mind palace Sherlock around by his neck, he started to rummage through his mind palace. Moriarty viciously flipped over files, ripped maps, and shredded documents. The Sherlock in his head fought against the grasp of Moriarty and shouted.

Sherlock lumbered to his feet and leaned against the shelf. He took a step forward. His knees wobbled.

_Hurry, you idiot!_

He took another step forward. He spotted the Sig Sauer and the torch on the floor. Sherlock's heart felt as if it was going to burst out of his chest.

“I'm not an idiot.”

 Moriarty looked up. His expression turned into a scowl.

Something different from warmth flared up inside Sherlock. Though it was weak, it was solid and sharp. The sensation was just enough to make the shadowy figure flinch. The consulting detective hurried towards the gun and the torch before the Moriarty in his head could do anything harmful. He fell on his knees and grasped the fallen tools. He safely holstered the gun and fumbled to turn the flashlight on. His hands were trembling far worse than he had imagined. Another drop of sweat trickled between his eyes and down along his chin. Sherlock swiped it off briskly. His limbs began to regain its mobility. As he turned the switch on, the light temporarily blinded him.

The imaginary Moriarty took advantage of it and flung the imaginary Sherlock against the hard walls of his mind palace. Sherlock's hand increased its tremble and the torch fell.

He leaned forward to grab it but swayed forward. The Sherlock in his head fought back, kicking Moriarty away.

Sherlock snatched the torch and heaved up. He turned and weakly paced towards the door, while crashing into the cargo inside the warehouse from time to time. He was going to get out of here. Find John and Lestrade, and go back to his flat. He couldn't lie spineless on the warehouse floor until someone came looking for him. Those days were behind. He was clean. He couldn't succumb to the warmth and most of all, John should not know about this.

Before he stumbled out of the warehouse door, Sherlock wiped as much sweat off his face and leveled his breathing. He still felt like he was floating but the shadows inside his head was restrained. Most of his brain regained its control over his body.

He let the cool breeze greet him and sucked in the fresh air. Police cars were already stationed nearby. John must have called them over. Silhouettes of police officers shimmered among the lights of red and blue. Sherlock’s heart thumped. He could hear blood rushing in his ears. Looking as sharp as possible, he strode towards the familiar figures of what seemed like John and Lestrade.

Lestrade was tucking the handcuffed killer into the back seat of a police car as John watched. Sherlock's shoulders tensed slightly. He hoped that John would not notice the tremors and the paleness. After their fear-toxin-induced adventures in Baskerville, John seemed to be more observant of Sherlock’s behavior.

 John turned around and smiled proudly at Sherlock. Lestrade closed the car door and looked up too. The killer was watching Sherlock through the window. The detective and the killer locked eyes for a fraction of a second. It could have been Sherlock's heroin-deranged imagination, but he could've sworn the killer smiled at him.

"There you are," John's voice rang in his ears. Sherlock switched his attention to his flat mate. "I was just thinking of calling you. I thought you were still looking for him." He nudged his head towards the car indicating the killer. Sherlock turned his coat collar up and brushed his sleeves.

"I was just looking around the place. I found some interesting stock." He shrugged.

"Oh." John said with a slightly unconvinced look.

"So, another case closed." Lestrade said with his arms crossed. "All thanks to our favorite sociopath." Lestrade couldn't help teasing Sherlock when he thanked the consulting detective. Usually, Sherlock answered these kinds of remarks with a snide comments, often associated with Lestrade’s bumpy relationship with his wife and the newest update on who she is sleeping with. However, the drug blocked Sherlock from coming up with a clever comeback. All he could do was flash a weak smile. The Detective Inspector's brow twitched in surprise, but before he could assess anything from it, Sherlock cleared his throat and slapped John's back. John let out a yelp of surprise. Just a little too hard, perhaps.

"Well, if you need me again, call straight away." He said briskly and turned on his heel to go to the main road to find a cab. John began to trot after him.

"I'll give you guys a ride. You'll have to walk for a while to find a cab around here." Lestrade called out. Sherlock dreaded this moment. The more he stayed with Lestrade, the more likely he will notice something wrong with Sherlock. Sure, John is his flat and a doctor but John has never seen Sherlock high. Sherlock's impressive acting skill will be able to fool him for a good time. But it wasn’t so easy with Lestrade.

Sherlock and Lestrade first met when Lestrade was running a drug bust in an abandoned facility. There, he found Sherlock in a drug addled state. Even after that, Lestrade caught Sherlock with a series of illegal substance. The only reason why Sherlock was running around freely right now was because he promised Lestrade and Mycroft that he will commit himself to rehabilitation.

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned around slowly.

They drove silently in Lestrade's Corolla. The police light was taken off from the roof. Lestrade was in the driver's seat, John in the passenger. Sherlock was in the back seat, gazing out the window with a blank look. The passing streetlights were mesmerizing. The logical side of him knew that there was nothing particularly spectacular about those aligned LED lights but the other half was itching to press his face against the window. John and Lestrade were talking about something. Their voices sounded like they were underwater to Sherlock. It took a while to realize that John was talking to him.

"….right, Sherlock?" Sherlock blinked and peeled his eyes away from the lights.

"What?"

"You said that the killer's methods were too elaborate. What did you mean by that exactly?" Lestrade asked as he turned the steering wheel to make the next corner. Sherlock didn't reply immediately. Moriarty's gleaming face flashed in his head. He shook it away.

"That was nothing. Crime thriller fanatics spend too much time on crap telly and flimsy novels. It was a bit clichéd." another face of Moriarty, this time looking annoyed, flashed in his head. The rest of the way to Baker Street was complete silence.

Once Lestrade's car came to a stop in front of their flat, John thanked the DI and hopped out. Lestrade nodded firmly in reply. Sherlock on the other hand, fumbled a little with the door before he opened it awkwardly. He slid his foot out of the car when Lestrade turned back worryingly.

"You okay, Sherlock?" He asked with a look of mild amusement. Sherlock shrugged, trying to look as careless as possible but he hoped Lestrade wouldn't notice the sound of his heart beating so loudly.

"Thanks for the ride." He said shakily and climbed out, closing the door behind him.

As John entered their flat, he pulled off his jacket and slumped into his armchair. He expected Sherlock to do the same. That's what they usually did after a big case. They would arrive home, fatigued but too hyped up to sleep. They would sit across each other. John would ask how Sherlock managed to solve the mystery. Sherlock would sigh, ask John how he could not understand when it is all so simple, and carefully guide him through his deductions.

This time was different though. Sherlock clambered in after John, closed the door behind him, shrugged the coat away and threw it on the couch. He usually hung his coat carefully but he couldn’t be bothered. John watched as Sherlock stumbled to the bathroom without a word. After a while, he heard a faint sound of running water.

Sherlock splashed cold water onto his face. He looked up at the mirror. His face had a touch of unhealthy blue, his eyes were bloodshot and the pupils constricted. His hands stopped trembling but his stomach was swirling. He heaved a sigh and tried to calm himself down. Despite his miserable state, Sherlock wasn't feeling as bad as he had thought. The worst of the drug had ebbed off, leaving Sherlock slightly nauseated. _I will be fine._ He told himself. _It's nothing serious enough to tell John._

Sherlock thought of having a cup of tea with John but he wasn't confident he maintain his composure throughout the night. Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, only to stumble into his bedroom. As his bedroom door closed with a thump, John shrugged and stood up to make himself a cup of tea. Perhaps, Sherlock was slightly cross that he couldn't apprehend the killer himself.

Sherlock knew he was sweaty and dusty, but he couldn't move anymore. With his long legs half hanging from the bed, he flopped onto the bed. He was floating again. He touched the part of his arm where he was injected. There was a mild bruising. Bloody clumsy Moriarty. As he remembered the sensation of when the heroin kicked in, his lungs shuddered, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his mind drifted into blackness.

…

_Hey_

Something was patting Sherlock's cheek roughly. Sherlock stirred.

_Wake up! I want to talk to you._

He cracked open his eyes. Everything was incredibly bright and white and very familiar. Sherlock was on his back looking straight up at the bright ceiling of his mind palace. He only comes here when he is either meditating or when he is dreaming.

_Am I dreaming?_

He didn't need any answer. He already knew it when he saw Moriarty's face looking down upon him.

_For heaven's sake. Get out of here._

He growled. Moriarty shrugged.

_I still have another hour or two until time._

_What time?_

_Until you wake up in excruciating pain._

Moriarty offered a hand to help Sherlock up. Sherlock ignored the gesture and got up to his feet on his own. His mind palace, usually organized and neat with countless aisles of filing drawers, were in a complete state of mess.

_Have you any idea how long it takes to put those back?_

Sherlock said to Moriarty with a bothered look. The consulting criminal kicked at some of the fallen documents.

 _I found 5 full drawers on substance abuse. It's a surprise you're still alive_.

Sherlock ignored Moriarty and started to collect the documents from the porcelain white floor.

_You liked it, didn't you? I know you did._

Moriarty edged closer to Sherlock and nudged him with an elbow. Sherlock waved it away.

_Made you remember those days, didn't it?_

_Shut up._

_Now why a brilliant man like you can't keep yourself away from such a lowly habit?_

_I said shut it._

_I know why. Because you don't want to think. But he won't let you stop._

Sherlock looked up to see who Moriarty was talking about. Moriarty was looking at a distance to his left. He turned to see his own figure lying on the far side of the aisle. He was all ruffled and unconscious. It was his alter self that ruled the inside of his head. The logical Sherlock, the unsentimental Sherlock, the Sherlock that keeps him going. Dread seeped in and settle down at the bottom of Sherlock’s stomach. If the controller was knocked out, that meant the drug was taking over him. He stepped away from Moriarty.

_Don't worry, Sherlock. I won’t bite. Why would I? You're me. I'm you._

Sherlock laughed uneasily, unable to come up with any retorts.

_No, I mean it, Sherlock. Remember me?_

Sherlock frowned. The voice wasn't Moriarty. It sounded very familiar. It was deeper than Moriarty.

_Remember? We met 15 years ago._

Sherlock muttered as it all made sense. He felt nauseous from his sick imagination. The figure was definitely Moriarty but the voice was his.

_Every time you used, you came here. You made me, remember? I'm your friend. I'm the only friend you'll ever have. Remember all those conversations we had?_

Sherlock remembered.

_Nothing advanced, nothing mind puzzling, no insults, no nothing. Just a pleasant 'Hi, how are you?’ They were conversations that he won't let you have._

Moriarty flourished at the fallen mind palace Sherlock again. Sherlock shifted his glance uneasily at his fallen self and then back toward Moriarty, only to find that it wasn't Moriarty anymore. He was staring right back at himself.

_Let's talk._

He said with one of those manipulative smiles that Sherlock usually used at Molly. Sherlock shook his head.

_I don't need you anymore._

The other Sherlock made a disappointed look.

_Come on, it's been a while. How's it been?_

Sherlock froze, his mouth half opened

_Have you been eating?_

The other Sherlock pressed without dropping his smile.

_What?_

Sherlock asked blankly. Something flashed in the back of his head.

_You look a bit gaunt._

Sherlock took another cautious step away from himself. There was something very familiar about that phrase. Someone had asked him a very similar question just a few days ago. Who was it?

_You look pale._

At these words, it all clicked in his head. Of course, it was John. John Watson, the ever constantly worried army doctor, the man who asks the most bizarre questions to Sherlock, the one person who can hold up a conversation with Sherlock for more than fifteen minutes.

_Shut up._

Sherlock whispered. The other Sherlock shook his head.

_Try again…_

But his voice trailed off and those all too familiar light blue eyes narrowed.

_Then again, it looks like our time is up._

…

Sherlock opened his eyes and gasped for air. He was back in his bedroom. His lower body was hanging from the bed just as he remembered it, but his joints and muscles felt like they were on fire. He was sweating all over. He tried to get up but a jolt of pain ran down between his shoulder blades. He screamed in his bed sheets, muffling the noise as much as possible to keep John from waking up. He panted and gritted his teeth. Groaning and huffing, he finally managed to get himself up. The drug had run out of his system and his body was screaming for it.

He scrambled for his bed side table drawer and stuck a hand into the very back where he kept an emergency stash. He hadn't touched it for years. He pulled out a freshly capped needle and a vial with clear liquid swishing in it. Placing them on the top of the table, he kneeled and hastily undid his belt, pushed up his left sleeve, wrapped the belt around his upper arm, and tightened it by pulling with his teeth. He groaned as cold chill ran down his spine. A headache was emerging. Wincing, he filled the needle with efficiency and slapped his arm to make his vein visible. Then, he stabbed it roughly and pushed the plunger. He let out a sigh of relief as the drug rushed through. He pulled out the syringe and slumped back. He undid the belt gingerly.

He looked down at the needle in his hand and back at his arm. The injection mark from the previous night was already an ugly purple color. A small droplet of blood was oozing out of his new puncture. His hand trembled. He shifted his eyes at the vial rolling at his side. He picked it up. It was more than half full.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Sherlock's past.  
> Lestrade explodes at Montague Street.  
> Moriarty paves his way into Sherlock's heart.

For minutes, Sherlock stared at the vial in his hand. A pleasant feeling spread inside him, but it wasn't strong enough to satisfy him. It just made him hungry for more. He raised the syringe in his other hand and edged it closer to the vial. Faint blue light leaked into Sherlock's bedroom through the cracks of his curtain. He could hear distance sound of London traffic. There was a soft thump from the corridor. John was up and he had just entered the bathroom to wash his face. Sherlock's face snapped up. He flung open the window and hurled the vial and the injection as far away as his battered body could manage. He heard a faint sound of breaking glass somewhere in the distance.

_Look what you just did._

A voice said teasingly in his head.

Just when John finished his scrambled eggs, Sherlock entered the living room. He was freshly clean with his usual trim attire.

"Morning" John called. Sherlock's mouth twitched as he tried to coordinate his muscles to make a small smile, only to end up in an awkward grimace. He tried not to drop his gaze towards the food on John's plate. It created an unpleasant swirling sensation inside of him. He had his last dose of morphine two hours ago. He still had half a day before the effects wore off completely. He slumped into the couch as the wheels in his head turned reluctantly.

Though Moriarty declared that he did his research, the drug was not the stash Sherlock frequented. He either accidentally or deliberately injected Sherlock with the worst batch of heroin. The effects were atrocious. The high was short lasting and the after effects were absolutely horrid. If Moriarty truly did get the drug from the same dealers, Sherlock could approach the man and question him. What was the man's name again? Perhaps Lestrade could help. He has the files and the records. How did Moriarty find out about all of this anyway? Oh yes, Mycroft, that's right… His thoughts trailed away.

John eyed Sherlock curiously. His flat mate was lying on the couch, the tip of his fingers placed together in his usual thinking position. He's never seen Sherlock so calm in between cases. He shrugged. As long as Sherlock wasn't jumping around the room, demanding for a pack of cigarettes with a harpoon in his hand, John was fine. Just then, Sherlock's mobile let out a beep. Sherlock slid his hands in his pocket without opening his eyes and lazily pulled out the mobile. He tapped the screen and peered at it. His eyes widened. It was Lestrade.

Fifth body found. Meet me at Bart's –GL

The serial was responsible for 5 deaths. 4 bodies were found at their crime scenes but 1 was missing. Sherlock sat up to grab his coat. He's just going to see the body. Make sure that his deductions were correct. John's back was turned against Sherlock. He was washing the dishes.

"John," Sherlock called. "We're going to Bart's." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

…

"We found it in the Thames, just like you said." Lestrade explained. Sherlock peered down at the pale blue, half decomposed body. Molly hovered on the right of Sherlock and John on the left, but Lestrade lingered a few paces behind them, well away from the body. Lestrade could never get the hang of floaters, probably because it reminded him of his childhood pet goldfish. He found it dead one day, floating in the bowl lifelessly, covered in white decomposing scales. Sherlock used to have a pet goldfish too. Only it was eaten by a cat. Little Sherlock was so disappointed because he was planning on dissecting the fish.

"And again, you were right about Anderson being wrong. He wasn't poisoned to death." Lestrade muttered and he expected a cold "Of course" or "Obviously" from Sherlock but it didn't come.

"He was strangled to death." Sherlock still didn't say anything. Lestrade expected Sherlock to jump up and down in arrogant joy.

"Is there anything wrong?" John asked. He also sensed something unusual about Sherlock's aloofness.

"No, it's all fine." Sherlock caught Molly's eyes. He flashed a reassuring smile. Molly froze at the spot. Sherlock walked briskly past the petrified pathologist as he pulled off his elastic gloves. John followed Sherlock, eyeing worriedly at Molly before muttering,

"Thanks for the time, Molly." She barely managed to nod in reply.

Lestrade, John and Sherlock strode out of the morgue and into the corridor. Sherlock tried hard not to think about the lab or the medical quarters in the hospital facility.

_You sure you don't want to grab anything on the way? Methadone, perhaps?_

_Shut up._

Lestrade pulled at Sherlock's coat. The tall man's train of thoughts disappeared.

"You're going the wrong way. The car park’s this way." Lestrade said. His dark eyes peering into Sherlock's face.

"Would you excuse me for a second?" Sherlock turned towards the direction of the men's restroom. John and Lestrade exchanged looks.

"Is Sherlock on a new case right now?" John shook his head.

"Not that I know of, no."

Lestrade rubbed his hand over his chin.

Sherlock can’t remember when he did it. His eyes widened in disbelief as he slowly reached into his trouser pocket. His quivering fingers touched the cool surface of something. His shoulders tensed as he weighed the object in his hand. He prayed that it was just an ink bottle. He pulled the object out and slowly dropped his gaze. The moment he saw it, Sherlock's face twisted into a look of pain and frustration. He couldn't believe it. John was there, Lestrade was there, Molly was there.

In his hand was a fresh bottle of morphine.

…

Sherlock opened the bottle and dumped the content down the sink before any stupid thoughts came across him. Sherlock stared at the liquid swish around the drain hole and slide down the dark hole. He had seen something very similar to this before.

…

Five years ago

The flat on Montague Street was a crummy one. Sherlock was in the bathroom, ready to finish himself off when the door flung open and a tightly clenched fist smashed into Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock staggered back and almost tripped over the bath tub. Before he could recover, the newly promoted detective inspector tackled Sherlock. His broad shoulder smashed into Sherlock's torso and the two tumbled into the empty tub. Sherlock's back throbbed from the impact. Lestrade sent another blow into Sherlock's face. Then again and again and again…

"You bloody idiot!" he yelled as Sherlock sputtered blood from his mouth and nose. Lestrade pulled the bottle of heroin from Sherlock's pocket. The officer dashed to the sink and opened the lid.

"No!" Sherlock yelled and started for him but the officer dumped the contents down the drain. The drug addled man lunged forward as if he could scoop up the liquid. Lestrade restrained his flailing arms and held Sherlock back.

"Get it back! What the hell are you doing?!" Sherlock screamed. Lestrade pinned Sherlock against the wall. Blood dripped down Sherlock's face and onto the front of his untidy shirt. His face had a ghastly demeanor. He was incredibly thin and bony, his cheek bones and collar bones jutted out sickly. His black curls were untamed.

"Look at you!" Lestrade exploded. He shook the dangerously skinny man twice. Lestrade was afraid that if he shook him anymore than this, Sherlock might break, but he had to make his point or the idiot was going to die. "You know better than this! Of all people, why you, Sherlock? You don't have to do this!" Sherlock smiled and shook his head.

"I can't" He wheezed. "I need this. It's the only way I can be ordinary." Lestrade eased his weight on Sherlock's arms. They were scarred with fresh needle marks.

"You're extraordinary, now deal with it." Lestrade barely managed to say this before Sherlock's stomach decided to turn upside down.

…

Sherlock dry heaved at the hospital's sink. Remembering that day always makes him uncomfortable and the drug inside him didn’t help.

"Sherlock?" John peeked into the restroom, "Are you okay?" He ran up to Sherlock and rubbed his. Nothing came out of Sherlock's mouth except bile. Sherlock spat and ran the water. He hastily pocketed the empty bottle before the doctor noticed. "Here, let me see." John gently turned Sherlock's face towards him and pulled down Sherlock's eyelids.

"You need to eat." He said firmly. Sherlock groaned.

"I'm not hungry."

"I don't care. You're eating." Sherlock wanted to protest but held back. It was lucky that John thought he was suffering malnutrition.

…

Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around the spoon gingerly. The tip of the spoon dipped into the surface of the soup, creating a small ripple. A simple vegetable soup; it was nothing too greasy or dry or hard for digestion. Mrs. Hudson after hearing from John that Sherlock was ill. The spoon chased the carrots round and round. John realized Sherlock had no intention to eat it. Sherlock felt his flat mate's gaze burning into him.

"Eat." The two men stared at each other glumly for a while. Sherlock squared his jaws and scooped up a carrot and nibbled on it. "I'm not going until you finish it."

"Stop treating me like a five year old." Sherlock glowered but there was something in his eyes that made him look weak rather than threatening. John huffed.

"Then you bloody well should stop acting like one." Sherlock took a bite from his spoon to show that he wasn't sick at all, but in truth, his whole body was resisting.

"When was the last time you ate anything?" The doctor asked as if interrogating a criminal. Sherlock rolled a slice of bacon in his mouth before he answered reluctantly,

"Last Tuesday."

"That's four days ago!" John snapped and sighed like a disappointed mother. "I know you consider these things trivial but imagine how I would feel if something happened to you." Sherlock carried another spoonful slowly to his mouth.

"I have no idea." He remarked dryly. John blinked at Sherlock. His shoulders dropped and his expression shifted into something Sherlock didn't recognize. Was it anger? No, it was too subtle for that. Disappointment? Or maybe, sadness. Sherlock couldn't tell for sure. John grimaced and leaned back on his chair.

…

Despite John's effort, Sherlock returned every last bite of Mrs. Hudson's soup into the toilet half a day later. Sherlock groaned as he flushed it down. Delirium was setting down upon him. Still in a kneeling position, he hung his long neck back and looked up at the ceiling. The lights shimmered above him. Everything was blurry. He just sat there like that, kneeling on the cool bathroom floor. Once he caught his breath, he leaned against the bathtub and limped towards the sink. He washed his face and rinsed his mouth. He didn't even bother wiping his face with a towel. He turned off the lights and carried himself heavily towards his bedroom. John was fast asleep. The tall figure curled up into his bed and shivered. He drew up his duvet and closed his eyes

…

_Worn out soles, clean laces. He obviously loves his shoes. No surprise since that model's a limited addition. He's some kind of a footwear mania. Ironic it doesn't match the rest of his attire. He is a stubborn man. Eldest child by the state of his bag. He probably has a younger sister and a brother with no more than 5 years age difference from each other._

_Hold on._

_Newly wed, works at a public library, judging by the well-developed muscles on her right forearm, she's a frequent badminton player._

_Retired for 7 years, widowed 2 years ago. Late marriage, no children._

_Living together for 2 year. Girlfriend's considering ending it. Victim of domestic violence. Pregnant. She earns more salary than him. A typical example of an unhealthy, dependent relationship._

_Occupation: truck driver, judging by the slight balding patch above his ears._

_An American who’s been living in London since 1976._

_STOP!_

Sherlock pushed the heels of his palm into his eyes and crouched down.

_I need to rest._

He demanded weakly. A hand squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. At first it was a gentle, reassuring squeeze but it gradually turned into a painful, brutal grasp. The hand tugged Sherlock's shirt and he was pulled up to his feet.

_No_

The voice said firmly. It was his voice. Sherlock saw his own face staring right back him. The lips were drawn tight, eyes determined and hard like steal. It was the logical Sherlock, the supreme controller of his mind palace.

_You can't stop._

_Just this once-_

Sherlock started to plead but the other Sherlock shushed him and opened another file. There was a picture of a man, dressed trimly with a pleasant smile and slick auburn hair.

_Mid forties, recently promoted, a chemical engineer…_

The internal Sherlock read the file mechanically. He busily flipped pages, assessed from photographs, and scribbled some notes in the margin. He made Sherlock watch and listen to all of this. Sherlock shook his head and tried to close the file but the other Sherlock didn't tolerate this. He waved Sherlock's hand away and opened a new file. Sherlock wanted to run away. He looked around for an exit but his mind palace was completely sealed. Suddenly it didn't feel like a palace to Sherlock. The other Sherlock grabbed his arm and tugged him back to his side.

_Four children, remarried, a patient man but tendency to show bursts of anger when…_

Just when the logical Sherlock was about to flip the page, something swooped behind the two and struck the logical Sherlock in the head. Sherlock staggered back as he saw the unknown assaulter tie the other Sherlock down with a rope.

_Hi again!_

It was Moriarty. There was a muffled grunt as the jolly consulting criminal strangled his mirror image. It was a strange sight to see. Sherlock cursed his twisted imagination once again. When the mind palace Sherlock was finally unconscious, Moriarty straightened himself up and brushed the creases on his beloved Westwood suit.

_Stay away._

_You're welcome_.

Moriarty stretched lazily, rolled his neck and then looked back a Sherlock.

_You said you wanted to stop so I just helped you, sheesh._

_Yes but I didn't want your help._

_Honey, in here, I'm the only help you can get._

Moriarty conjured an armchair identical to the one he sat on in Baker Street. He slid it over to Sherlock. He conjured another for his own and sat cross legged on it. Sherlock slowly lowered himself onto the chair. He eyed his unconscious self, lying at the foot of Moriarty's chair.

_Does that bother you?_

Moriarty shrugged and snapped his fingers. With a blink of an eye, the figure disappeared. It was as if he never existed. Suddenly, the bright lights in his mind palace dimmed. The while tiled floors became pitch black.

_Comfortable?_

Strangely, it was. It felt soothing when he wasn't exposed to the bright white lights. It was as if he could finally relax his shoulders. It also felt very familiar.

_We used to talk like this. It took me a while to arrange it back to how it used to be._

The man grinned back at him proudly.

_Moriarty,_

Sherlock started but the consulting criminal raised his hands to protest.

_Please, call me Jim._

_…Jim_

Sherlock began slowly, not sure how he should put this.

_Why are you doing this?_

Moriarty blinked.

_Because you wished for it._

Sherlock bit his lips. Moriarty leaned forward in his chair.

_What makes you happy?_

Sherlock frowned at this dismissal.

_That's what you do to become happy. What makes you happy?_

_When I solve a case._

Sherlock answered with a puzzled look on his face.

_Why?_

_Because that's what I do._

_That's what you tell yourself._ _Your mind never lets you rest. It constantly assesses, analyzes, deduces, files, memorizes._

Sherlock scrunched up his face in denial.

_I never cared for anything else._

_You've been telling yourself that for years. But Sherlock, the truth is you've always craved to be ordinary and feel like others._

_No I never-_

_Then how do you explain this, Sherlock? You had to shut this whole place down._

Moriarty interrupted with a firm look, and threw his arms wide to indicate what he was talking about. Sherlock squirmed in his seat.

_All it matters to me is the Work._

Sherlock insisted, but his voice sounded weaker.

_Because that is all you have._

Moriarty sighed and stood up from his seat. Sherlock followed the expensively dressed man with his eyes. Moriarty reached for one of the drawers and pulled out a file randomly. He thrust the file at Sherlock so he could read the title. Ballistics A-17.

_You have a drawer full of these. And these._

He showed him a different file. North London. Moriarty flipped through the file and showed him a page with a map. It was a map of a park.

_You used to go there when you were a kid. You liked that spot. And what do you file?_

Moriarty flipped to the next page where there were snapshots of the park and a typed report.

_Observation on its landscape, statistics and demographic of visitors, crime rate._

_I must have deleted some things._

Sherlock answered with a shrug. Moriarty tossed the files back inside the drawer without even caring to place it back in its proper order. Sherlock itched to reorganize it.

_That's the problem. You delete too much._

_It's all I need._

The consulting detective muttered in a low growl.

Moriarty sighed and sat down in his chair again. There was a look of sadness in the criminal's eyes. The expression was so gentle that it didn't fit his character at all.

_You don't need to do this._

_I do._

Moriarty seemed to be sitting closer to Sherlock than he last remembered.

_What's all the running for?_

The two men's seats were no more than a meter apart now. Sherlock's light blue eyes wavered for a second. Moriarty gently placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

_They need me._

Sherlock said in a weak hush of a whisper. He had to keep on going but he was tired. Sherlock was so tired of all of it. Moriarty leaned towards Sherlock.

_Take my hand, Sherlock. I can help you._

The man insisted in a soft murmur but Sherlock lowered his head and shook it. Moriarty gently wrapped his hands around Sherlock's head.

_Let it all go. Let me help you, please._

He always thought solving crime was fun. It was pure joy. What did he truly want though? Lost in confusion, Sherlock leaned his head against Moriarty's shoulder. His eyelids slowly shut.

_You don't have to push yourself anymore. You can rest. Stop thinking._

Moriarty's voice echoed in Sherlock's head. He could feel the vibration of his vocal chords through his shoulders. There was something very soothing about it. He never felt so relaxed in such a long time. Sherlock shuddered and exhaled slowly.

_You don't have to delete anything anymore. You don't need to file anything anymore._

Moriarty's voice and warmth melted into Sherlock. Moriarty gently embraced Sherlock like that for what seemed like hours. He had never felt so calm before. The confusion inside him ebbed away. Everything felt so perfect. No mysteries, no missing link, and no need of struggle. He wished to stay like this forever.

…

Sherlock opened his eyes. He found himself gazing up at the ceiling. His heart was beating fast. He placed the back of his hand on his forehead and sighed. He was feverish. It was already morning and he could hear John walking around the kitchen. The shivers and nausea from last night was gone. He looked at his watch. It was exactly 24 hours since his last hit. Sherlock sniffed. His nose was runny. It was a typical sign of a withdrawal. He wished his brain to stop craving for the drug. The dream he saw last night made him queasy inside. He tried to shake the thought away. Delete it, delete it. He told himself but he couldn't. His mind palace refused.

Sherlock went downstairs to greet John. He tried to preoccupy his head with anything other than getting high. He grabbed a testing tube and a beaker and tried to start a new experiment but he couldn't concentrate for more than 5 minutes. John offered him breakfast but he waved it away. The doctor frowned back at him.

"Sherlock, you have to eat." He asserted but the taller man shook his head as he randomly rummaged around scraps of paper.

"I'll eat it later."

"You promise?" Without looking at John, Sherlock nodded.

 He grabbed his violin but tossed it back onto the sofa before he could play a single note. He scratched his head. Sherlock checked his phone and his website. No one has contacted him for a new case. The back of his eyes started to ache dully. John was seated at his chair, reading a newspaper. Sherlock placed the tip of his fingers together and breathed slowly. He paced up and down the room. He shot a nervous look out the window. It was bright… perhaps too bright. The pounding sensation in his head grew. A bead of sweat rolled down along his left cheekbone.

It wasn't even hot, why was he sweating? He hurried toward the bookshelf to find something to read. Every step he took toward the books caused his body to tremble. John was still endorsed in his reading. Sherlock clung to the bookshelf and stared at the encyclopedia lined up in front of him. The letters blurred and doubled. Suddenly, his fingertips felt as if it was touching ice. The warmth he felt in his dream seeped away. Sherlock was paralyzed. He needed the drug to get his warmth back. The tall man lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He was losing control over his brain. It was screaming for the drug, the warmth, the calmness. It had taken his body as hostage and now it was demanding for what it craved.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's mind and body begins to crumble.

John peered down at Sherlock with a mixture of rage, confusion, and genuine shock.

"You WHAT?" He exclaimed as he pocketed his phone. Before Sherlock could answer, an immense jolt of pain burst in his head. He gasped, and kicked the floor. John held his frame protectively. After a few seconds, Sherlock went limp and heaved heavily.

"Can you hear me?" John asked urgently but the detective slowly closed his eyes and blacked out. John took a deep breath and rolled up his sleeves. He turned his head towards the door and called for Mrs. Hudson. Noticing the urgency in John's voice, the landlady came to their door in hurry.

"Anything wrong, J- oh dear." She let out a nervous squeak and placed her hand over her mouth. "What happened?" John didn't answer immediately. He beckoned her over and said in an urgent tone,

"Could you help me carry him to his bed?"

John hooked his arm under Sherlock's armpit and lifted him up as Mrs. Hudson grabbed Sherlock's long limp legs. John was surprised to find Sherlock lighter than he expected. Mrs. Hudson seemed to notice this too and looked up with a worried look.

"He hasn't been eating properly has he?" The two carefully carried him toward his bedroom. Sherlock groaned when they laid him down on the bed. Mrs. Hudson arranged his legs so she could pull the duvet up to his waist and keep him warm. She then rubbed her hip and winced. John pulled up a chair beside Sherlock and checked the unconscious man’s pulse. The curtain was closed and the room was dark. Mrs. Hudson peered over John shoulder with a worried look. John swiftly unbuttoned Sherlock's dark velvet shirt.

"I'll go get a hot towel." Mrs. Hudson murmured and rushed out the door. The front of the shirt was already wet with sweat. Sherlock's chest rose and sank heavily. John held a gasp when he opened the shirt completely. Sherlock's body was skinnier than he had expected. It had clearly lost a frightening amount of weight over the past few days. The rib cages were visible, his stomach was sunken and flat, and his collar bone was dangerously visible. Above all, the doctor could not help but stare at the fresh bruise on Sherlock’s left arm, which was unmistakably from an injection. There were at least two of them. Mrs. Hudson came back into the room and she gently wiped the sweat away from Sherlock's forehead. She did not say anything about the bruise but there is no doubt she recognized what it was.

"He's burning hot."

John nodded and ran out the room and grabbed the medic bag from his own bedroom. He dashed back into Sherlock's room, opened the bag and pulled out a stethoscope. He placed the instrument against Sherlock's chest and strained his ears. His heartbeat was quick and his breathing was raspy and thin. John scratched the back of his neck and bit his lower lip. He wished he could do something to ease Sherlock's pain but there was nothing he could give him. If anything, he had to keep Sherlock away from narcotics.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Mrs. Hudson asked uneasily once she finished wiping sweat away from Sherlock's face. John shook his head.

"No, thank you Mrs. Hudson. I’ll give you a shout if there’s something." He smiled weakly. Mrs. Hudson eyed Sherlock and then back to John uncertainly.

 

"Okay, I'll always be downstairs." She gently patted John's hand as she exited the room. Once the door closed, John opened Sherlock's dressing drawer and pulled out Sherlock’s cotton T-shirt. The doctor carefully lifted Sherlock's unconscious body and slipped his arms away from the damp shirt. The task was harder than John expected since he had to hold Sherlock up with one arm and yank the fabric away from Sherlock's long limbs with the other. A few more minutes of wrestling with the fabric, John managed to slip Sherlock on a fresh pair of shirt. He slowly laid Sherlock down on his back and pulled the bed sheet over to his chest. Sherlock murmured something but John couldn't catch what he was saying.

"What is it?" John asked quietly but the detective didn't answer. John sighed. He was probably talking in his sleep. John looked around the room. From the looks of it, it seemed like Sherlock was suffering from an opiate withdrawal. Could he still have some stash in the flat? He looked under the bed with a pen light in one hand. He felt guilty for snooping around his flat mate's room but he had to. He opened some drawers and checked the bookshelf. He even checked Sherlock's spare trousers’ pockets. There was nothing. John sighed. Maybe it was somewhere else in the flat. As he turned his attention to the door, he saw Sherlock's coat hanging from it. He randomly stuck his hand in its pocket. He froze. He pulled out the object that was in Sherlock's pocket and looked at the label.

"Oh god…" He muttered and looked at Sherlock, then back at the label. The vial had an emblem very familiar to John. The emblem was from Bart's.

…

Sherlock ran down the aisle and looked everywhere but he couldn't find the exit. His mind palace was in a devastating state. The lights above flickered. It was freezing cold and the floor was wet. Water was leaking in from somewhere. The drawers were opened and files and papers were scattered everywhere. Some were floating on the water surface. Sherlock winced. The water was ice cold and his legs were turning numb. He slammed a fist against the grey wall. The pounding noise echoed around. He grit his teeth and continued to punch the wall hoping someone would notice. He was trapped. The air was getting colder. His breath was white. He slammed his shoulder against the wall. Pain jolted down his right arm but he didn't care. He had to get out of here. Before he knew it, Sherlock was yelling for help.

_Jim!_

It was the last name he thought he would ever call for help.

_Please, before I-_

Too late. Something grabbed his legs and pulled him down. Sherlock’s body was completely paralyzed as the floor became soft and started to swallow his legs. Sherlock was sinking into the water. He sank to his knees, waist, and then to his chest. He tried to climb out of the cold goo but it wouldn't budge.

_Jim, help me!_

He barely managed to yell before he was completely swallowed by the dark, cold nightmare.

…

Sherlock gasped for air. A hand grasped the hair on the back of Sherlock's head. A rough voice yelled,

 

"Stay down!" and the hand pushed Sherlock's face back into the cold water.

The sensation was all too familiar. Sherlock fought to free himself from the painful grip but an addition pair of hands grabbed Sherlock's arms and held it behind his back. Sherlock screamed in the water. His lungs were clawing inside him for air. Just when he thought he was going to black out, the hand yanked Sherlock's face up. Before he could open his eyes, he was ducked into the water again. Sherlock was kneeling in front of a gritty water tank at a cold, damp basement. The air stank of rust and sweat. They were in one of the many storage rooms in the school. Sherlock tried to kick the attacker away but the hands twisted Sherlock's arms so that pain ran down his shoulder blades. The hand pulled Sherlock away from the water again. The young man gasped for air and embraced himself for another dunk, but it didn’t come. Instead, the hand pulled his head up so that Sherlock had to gaze up at the. He was shaking and light headed from the lack of oxygen. He gulped for air and spat water out from his mouth. The hands let go of Sherlock. Sherlock collapsed on the cold hard floor. He coughed.

"You don't talk about this to anyone, you understand?" The voice barked at him. Sherlock rolled on his back and looked up at the men gazing down at him. There were four of them. Students from the year above. Sherlock had foolishly pointed out to them in the dining hall that they had cheated in their most recent exam. Sherlock shook his head. A boot rammed into Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock just grunted and rolled on to his side. How can he not notice this to the professors? It was completely illogical.

"I said do you understand?" The voice demanded. Another kick landed into Sherlock's abdomen. This made Sherlock wretch. He gasped for breath and clutched his hands over his stomach. Why didn't he just back away when they told him to shut his mouth? If it weren't for his big brained ego, he would have been back in his dormitory by now. Another kick landed in Sherlock's jaw.

…

John strained his ears when he first heard it. He thought it was a mistake, but then Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and the delirious man murmured weakly,

"Jim."

John blinked and wondered how many Jims Sherlock knew. John took Sherlock's wrist and took his pulse. It was beating fast. He had been sitting beside Sherlock for an hour. The detective's pulse was so far beating as a fast as a man would during a marathon.

“Jim, help me." John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s wrist.

…

Sherlock woke up with a start. His hands flew to his face. He expected his lips to be swollen and bloody but they were just fine. A hand gripped Sherlock's shoulders firmly.

"Easy," A voice said gently. Sherlock turned his head to see John staring. The soldier's dark blue eyes twinkled. Sherlock breathed heavily and sat up. John gently placed a hand on Sherlock's back. Sherlock hastily checked his ribs. They weren't broken or bruised. They felt just fine.

 

"Are you okay?" Sherlock gaped back at his flat mate for a moment, blinked several times and looked down at his trembling hands.

"Yes." but John knew that asking the question in the first place was a silly thing. Sherlock's voice was hollow and he was obviously far from okay. John took Sherlock's pulse again. Sherlock stared down at John's firm hands with sunken eyes. He still felt like he was in that storage room. He looked around his room. The curtains were drawn and on the bedside table was an empty vial of morphine that he had emptied the other day. Sherlock let out a sigh.

"Your pulse is still a bit high." John's hand swept away the matted hair from Sherlock's forehead. He gently turned Sherlock's face towards him and checked his eye lids and throat. Sherlock didn't utter a single word as the inspection was executed. John probably thinks that Sherlock had taken the drug voluntarily. He had for his second hit but none of this would have happened if it weren't for Jim Moriarty.

"So, who's Jim?" John suddenly asked. Sherlock jumped. It was as if John had read his mind.

"Who?" Sherlock asked with a half dazed look. John avoided Sherlock's eye contact as he pulled his hand away.

"You were talking in your sleep.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. He shifted in his seat. His legs ached. He tried to slide out of bed but John held him back.

"You need to stay here. I'll go get some water for you. You're dehydrated." As soon as John disappeared through the door, Sherlock ran a hand down his hair. It was damp with sweat. He recalled the dream he had. Suddenly he felt so cold. He drew the duvet up to his chin and dug himself deeper into the bed. He felt like he was sleeping on a pile of rocks. His back ached. Sherlock tried to find a comfortable position but his body ached all over the place. He lied stomach down and hugged the pillow. He knew that all the kicking and punching was just from a bad dream but the body aches were so tremendous that he started to wonder if it was just a dream after all. He kneaded his forehead and groaned. How was he supposed to explain all of this to John?

Just then, the door creaked open and the doctor came with a pitcher full of water and a glass. He poured some for Sherlock as the sick man slowly raised himself up again. He gulped the water down. Every time he swallowed, a nauseating feeling grew inside his abdomen but he ignored it. John took the empty glass away from Sherlock without saying a word. Sherlock cursed John's grand gift of silence. He knew that John was bursting with questions.

Sherlock got back onto his stomach and breathed heavily. He buried his face into the pillow and tried to gather his strength to speak. He tried to organize his story in his head. John mistook Sherlock's body language as a "go away" message. He sighed and raised himself from the chair and reached for the door.

"John," Sherlock managed to call out in a cracked voice.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry." John blinked. Then he slowly slid down back to his seat. "I never meant to-"

 

"I know.” John smiled encouragingly at Sherlock. The awkward tension between Sherlock and John melted immediately. Sherlock exhaled in his pillow and turned his head so he was facing John properly. His right cheek was pushed against the pillow.

"It's been 24 hours since my last…you should leave before it gets worse. I can manage on my own." John slowly shook his head and crossed his arms.

"I'm a doctor. There's no need to warn me." Sherlock nodded. He was half hoping John would nod in agreement and leave the room. Sherlock's eyes shifted to the empty vial on the bed side table. He glanced at it for a while. John wondered what was going through Sherlock’s head.

"So, you got this from Bart's?" John asked slowly.

"Yes.” Sherlock replied, still gazing at the vial.

"Yesterday?"

"Yes."

“How much?"

"I didn't." Sherlock replied sharply. His eyes peeled away from the vial and flashed towards John. Then, the lights in his eyes dimmed again. He dropped his gaze down to his pillow. "I emptied it before I could. And I disposed the other remaining stock in the flat as well." Sherlock's voice trailed away. He shifted uncomfortably in his bed. He let out a sigh and a weak laugh. John didn't say anything. He just gazed down at Sherlock with a sad expression.

"I didn't want to show you this." He muttered more to himself rather than to John.

"You should have told me, you idiot." John opposed. Sherlock smiled.

"This isn't my first time."

"I know that." John replied bluntly. The two gazed at each other for a while. The silence was finally broken when John sighed and relaxed his shoulders.

"Why? Since when?" He asked pleadingly. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I didn't want to." John squared his jaw as he heard this. "It was Jim." Sherlock grimaced. "Moriarty" he added hesitantly. John's eyes widened. Surprise and anger swirled inside it.

"The warehouse?" John asked in a whisper. Sherlock smiled. John's mouth twitched.

Sherlock rolled himself back onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. His head was strangely blank

"Two more days.” Sherlock muttered. John nodded in agreement. The peak of withdrawals disappears 72 hours after the last dosage. He was only one third through the trip. The worst was yet to come.

"John," he started in a low firm voice. "I will probably fall into a delirious state in times. I may even try to escape this flat or hurt myself. No matter what I do, no matter what I say, don't ever let me take another hit." John nodded firmly.

"Of course." Sherlock gazed back at the ceiling with a faraway look.

"And don't let me hurt you."

…

After their conversation, Sherlock just lay still in his bed. John was sat beside him, reading a book by the lamp light. It was still midday. Sherlock's back was turned against the doctor. He was exhausted but his eyes were wide open. Sherlock couldn't admit this to John but the truth was that he was too frightened to go to sleep. He couldn't let himself slip into his mind palace again. Jim. He mouthed the words silently. Jim. Goosebumps ran down his arm. He rubbed his shoulders to get rid of it. He shivered. He flopped on his back and gritted his teeth. JIM. Sherlock bolted upright. John jumped in surprise. Sherlock climbed out of the bed.

"I need to shower." Sherlock growled and burst out of the room.

"Okay." John murmured and grabbed a new pair of clothing for Sherlock and handed it to him before he disappeared into the shower room. John hovered over the closed door to check the noise of running water before he went to prepare for a quick lunch.

Sherlock shivered violently as he stepped into the shower. The hot water pounded on Sherlock's temple and ran down his shoulders and back. He expected his body to be enveloped by steamy warmth but he still felt cold. He pressed his hands against the wall and leaned forward. He bowed his head so that the water would directly hit the back of Sherlock's long neck.

John almost dropped his kitchen knife when he heard a large thud from the bathroom. He hastily placed the knife down and dashed toward the shower room.

"You okay?" He called out over the door. The shower was still running.

"Fine." Sherlock growled back.

"Do you need any help?"

"No." The voice replied bluntly.

John nodded and went back to the kitchen. Sherlock stared down at his right hand and furrowed his brow. He opened and closed his hand. There was a deep cut on the knuckle area and blood ran freely down into the drain along with hot water. He had just punched the wall in undefinable agitation. His brain was screaming for the drug. And if he didn't obey, Sherlock's brain was going to tear his own body apart.

 After Sherlock took the shower and dried himself, John tried to make Sherlock eat something but the detective shook his head. He insisted that he wasn't hungry but John knew that Sherlock's brain was playing a trick on him. Sherlock's body was screaming for nutrition. After a few minutes of reasoning, Sherlock grew tired of arguing and gave in. He reluctantly sipped the chicken soup John had prepared for him.

"It's not as good as Mrs. Hudson's but this would do." John shrugged.

Sherlock didn't utter a word as he ate. Beads of sweat formed around his forehead. Halfway through, Sherlock suddenly shoved the soup bowl at John and flew out of the room. John hurried after him and found the poor man kneeling in front of the toilet and heaving violently. John kneeled beside him and rubbed his back but Sherlock pushed him away. John didn't protest and just took a step back and supervised the reversing process. After a few while, Sherlock slumped against the bathtub and placed his hand over his face and covered his eyes. His hands were shaking violently. He was so pale that John could clearly see the blue veins on his hands and neck. John also spotted a fresh gash on Sherlock's knuckle. He knelt in front of Sherlock and waited for him to catch his breath.

"I guess we'll have to go with intravenous feeding then." John murmured. Sherlock nodded in agreement. It's been five days since Sherlock kept anything down in his stomach for proper digestion. John gently reached for Sherlock's head and pressed lightly against his neck. He had an enlarged thyroid gland. It was a clear sign of malnutrition. John massaged Sherlock's trembling, clammy, long fingers and asked gently,

"Any numbness?"

"Yes." Sherlock murmured with his eyes unfocused and pupils dilated. A clear sign of withdrawal. Sherlock wretched again but he managed to keep his digestives down.

"Chest pains?" Sherlock nodded.

"Cold?"

"Very."

"What happened to this?" John indicated the gash. The cut was deeper than he thought. He turned to the cabinet to get a plaster. Sherlock pressed against the rim of the bathtub and lifted himself up. John turned back to Sherlock and asked for his hand but Sherlock shook his head and swayed towards his bedroom.

"It's just a cut." Sherlock grumbled. There was slight tone of shame in Sherlock's voice. Letting John massage his hands must have hurt his dignity. John swore under his breath for his carelessness, pocketed the plaster and followed the taller man silently. As soon as Sherlock was back soundly in his bed, John checked his blood pressure. It was too high. John hurried to his room and got several stocks of intravenous infusions. He sat beside Sherlock and asked for his arm. Sherlock obeyed silently and presented his dangerously thin, pale arm. John tried to keep a neutral face as he cradled the fragile limb and inserted the needle.

Sherlock could still taste the sourness in his mouth. He closed his eyes. White sparks erupted behind his eye lids and it stung. He opened his eyes with a start but the pain didn't go away. Instead, it started to grow inside him and pound against his eyes violently. Sherlock breathed through his nose heavily and pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes.

"You okay?"

"Migraines." Sherlock muttered. John turned off the lamp light. "Thanks." He said but Sherlock couldn't hide the irritation in his voice. The pain was becoming unbearable. If it continued any longer, Sherlock could swear that his eyes were going to pop. He suppressed a moan through his gritted teeth. John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder worryingly but it didn't help at all. Jim…Jim…Jim…

"Jim" Sherlock muttered out loud without realizing. The hand on Sherlock's shoulder tensed for a fraction of a second and then it slid away. Sherlock's left hand twitched and grasped at John's wrist. The grip was so tight and Sherlock's nails dug sharply into John's skin. John froze. Sherlock realized what he was doing and let go with a start. He stared up a John.

"You should rest, John." He murmured through his gritted teeth and massaged his eye lids.

"It's okay." John started to say but he realized that this was Sherlock's way of saying "Thank you for your help but please leave me alone for the moment." John closed his mouth and nodded. He slipped out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

Sherlock bit on his lips so hard that it was starting to bleed. He groaned to himself. He wanted to ram his head against the wall but he didn't have the strength to lift himself up. He didn't want to go back there again, but the pain was so immense that he had no choice but to slip into unconsciousness. That was the only way he could cope with the pain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's grasp on reality begins to collapse.

The water was already waist high. The majority palace was enveloped in darkness and only a few lights were functioning properly. Sherlock climbed on top of one of drawers and looked down into the water. He could see a vague reflection of himself on the water surface. It was pale, ghostly, and above all young. In fact, he was too young. Sherlock Holmes was looking at the reflection of his child self. He took a step back in surprise. The reflection in the water did the same. He looked down at his hands. They were the size of an adult's. He looked at his feet. He was wearing his usual suit trousers and leather shoes. He looked back at the water. Little Sherlock was staring right back at him. Sherlock shook his head and took another step back. Before he knew it, his foot slipped off the edge of the drawer and he plunged back first into the ice cold water.

Everyone loved Mr. Dalton. Being in Mr. Dalton's class was the best thing that could happen to a kid in this school, yet there was one child who feared him; Sherlock Holmes. By the age of ten, Sherlock learned that things are not always how they seemed to be. The Holmes brothers saw everything. Their sharp eyes spotted every well-hidden ugly truths of real life with one glance. Mycroft knew how to hide his knowledge. Sherlock was clumsier than his older brother and often slipped up.

Everyone tugged at the jolly teacher's sleeves during recess. Mr. Dalton's wide grin, booming laughter and the warm enveloping arms attracted all the kids. Sherlock however, refused to go near the man and lurked in the corner of the playground. Sherlock wasn't a shy boy. If you interviewed the other teachers in his primary school, they would all remark that Mycroft was the shy one and Sherlock was the out spoken energetic one, but Sherlock was alarmingly quiet and withdrawn during his year in Mr. Dalton's class.

They all failed to see what was behind Mr. Dalton's bright smiles. Perhaps they saw it too, but they refused to believe it. The moment Sherlock and Mycroft laid eyes on that man, they knew that he was an incredibly heavy drinker with a long history of domestic abuse against his wife and son. Sherlock could imagine Mr. Dalton shoving his wife violently against the wall, the numerous bruises and burns he had inflicted with those hands, and that same hand was holding the hands of his classmate. Mycroft simply pressed his index fingers to his lips and nodded at Sherlock before running off to his class. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot as he wondered how he was going to cope with this dangerous teacher for a whole year.

"Holmes, you alright there?" It was the first week of school when Sherlock found Mr. Dalton crouching in front of him after class. The boy looked up with a look of surprise. Sherlock was waiting for his brother at the school entrance. He gripped his school bag tightly and drew his lips into a straight line. Mr. Dalton reached forward but Sherlock cowered away. Stupid. Sherlock told himself but it was too late. An alarmed look flashed in Mr. Dalton's green eyes. Sherlock looked down at his feet. Mr. Dalton straightened up and opened his mouth to say something but before he could utter a single word, his brother called out from behind them,

"Sherlock." They both looked up to find Mycroft smiling back. There was a certain twinkle in his eyes that only Sherlock knew. His brother had just saved his neck.

After that incident, Mr. Dalton never approached Sherlock when he was alone. Half of him probably feared Sherlock, and another half probably despised the sharp kid. He occasionally called on Sherlock during class and Sherlock would answer any question with as little emotion as possible. No one other than his teacher knew the reason to why Sherlock became so quiet. Soon, classmates started calling him "freak". Mr. Dalton, of course, offered no help to Sherlock.

...

When John visited Sherlock’s room again, the detective was sound asleep. He was sweating heavily but other than that, everything seemed fine. It was good that Sherlock had no signs of insomnia so far. John eyed the gash on Sherlock's hand. He pulled out the plaster from his pocket and applied it to the cut. Then, held it gently for a few seconds before he carefully tucked the hand back under the duvet.

Sherlock felt a hand hold him as he walked out of school. He thought it was Mycroft but it was too big. He looked up to see Jim smiling back down at him. Sherlock's head was bursting with questions, but before he could ask anything, Jim tugged gently at Sherlock and the two walked away from the school. Sherlock felt unnaturally calm, sound, and above all, safe. A smile broke onto his face. Suddenly, he didn't see anything anymore. He didn't have to think. He was safe from all the truth. However, this moment of bliss lasted only for a few minutes. A jolt ran down Sherlock's spine and everything became dark. The sun was gone and Jim was gone. Sherlock looked around. He was his adult self again and he was gasping for air. He was back in his flooding mind palace. The water was up to his shoulder and papers were floating everywhere around him. He grabbed one of the drenched file that was floating lazily past him. He looked at the title. Timothy Dalton. He crumpled the file in his hands, threw it as far away as possible, and he screamed.

…

Sherlock bolted upright and yanked the IV from his arm. He stumbled out of his bedroom and went to the bathroom. He splashed hot water on his face frantically. He remembered the reassuring grip in his hand. Jim. He felt miserable, lost and useless. The consulting detective hung his head over the sink and tried to clear his head but a strange buzzing noise erupted in his ear every time he tried to concentrate. Sherlock huffed irritably and paced around the shower room. His knees ached every time he took a step but anything was better than just lying still in bed. He looked down at the tiled floor. The lines and the squares floated and swirled around. Sherlock stumbled towards the toilet and heaved. Nothing came out. He slid back and collapsed on the floor. His cheek touched the cool smooth surface. He stared blankly at the door. He could have been like that for hours if it weren't for a pair of very familiar leather shoes stepping into the shower room. Sherlock shifted his gaze upward and froze. He saw himself gazing down at him with a cold gaze. He had unwavering clear blue eyes, intimidating composure, and his usual trim attire. Sherlock groaned to himself. It was the logical Sherlock, back to haunt him again.

"Where's Jim?" Sherlock asked weakly and tried to lift himself up from the floor. The other Sherlock folded his arm and leaned against the sink.

"He doesn't exist."

"But you're here."

The logical Sherlock offered a hand but Sherlock slapped it away.

"I'm here to help you.” The stern voice said.

"No you aren’t."

"You're not thinking straight."

"Where's Jim?"

"Oh please, don't tell me you-"

"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded and grabbed his projection's shirt and pinned him to the wall. "What did you do to him?" Hatred and desperation flared in Sherlock's unfocused eyes. The other Sherlock raised his hands to show that he meant no harm.

"I'm here to help you." The logical Sherlock pushed gently against the delirious Sherlock but he refused to release his grip.

"Help? Do you know how much I've suffered because of you?" He snarled through his clenched teeth. The other Sherlock just stared back at him blankly.

"Moriarty is tricking you. Fight him, you've done it before."

"I'm sick of fighting!" Sherlock roared.

"Stop it, Sherlock!” He roared back at him with a frightening demeanor. The dark figure towered over him. Sherlock pressed his back against the sink and reached behind him to grab something for defense. The logical Sherlock grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and shook him violently. "Snap out of it."

"Don’t touch me." Sherlock breathed and grabbed a shaving razor.

"Moriarty is feeding you nightmares, Sherlock!"

"No, Jim's the one helping me."

"Stop calling him that!"

The figure squeezed Sherlock's shoulders with a surprisingly powerful grip. It felt like his skin was on fire. Sherlock yelled and thrashed the razor at his projection. It swiped across the other Sherlock's face, right along his left jaw line. It wasn't a deep cut but enough to make blood run freely down his neckline.

"You!" He exclaimed and thrust Sherlock to the side. The back of Sherlock’s head collided against the bathtub. The other Sherlock grabbed at Sherlock mercilessly. Blood seeped into his velvet shirt and a dark smear was growing around the collar. Sherlock reached back and fumbled with the bathtub water. Cold water burst out from the shower. The logical Sherlock let out a yelp and retreated but regained his position and pinned Sherlock to the floor. Sherlock tried to kick the man away but he was too weak and he ached all over the place. Every single muscle in his body felt like it was on fire. Sherlock squirmed and yelled in pain. A drop of blood dripped on Sherlock's face.

"Jim!"

"Stop calling his name!"

 

"Ji-" Sherlock's mouth was covered by his own bony hands and he was dragged up to his knees. The last thing he saw was his own emotionless eyes looking straight back at him, as he was lifted up and dumped back into the bathtub where cold water pounded onto him.

…

John was tidying up the kitchen when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the flat door with her usual hoot.

"How is he?”

“Still asleep, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I’ve made some muffins. Come down stairs and have some." She beckoned. John followed with a smile. The sweet smell was wafting all over her kitchen.

“Take some back upstairs for Sherlock too. While it’s warm.”

"I tried to make him eat but his body just rejects everything."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "It's not the flu as well, is it?" John laughed weakly at this question.

"No," He replied. "It’s a common symptom of the…." His voice trailed away. Mrs. Hudson understood. She nodded and poured some tea out into their mug. John heard noise from upstairs. Sherlock must be awake now.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson, the muffins will have to wait.” He said politely and bound back upstairs.  John noticed the abandoned infusion needle at Sherlock’s bedside and let out a sigh. He wished Sherlock called John to take the needle off instead of just yanking it off himself. He swiftly changed the bed sheets before knocking the bathroom door.

"Sherlock, do you have your change?" He called. He strained his ears. There was no reply. He knocked again. "Sherlock?" Still no reply. John frowned. His heart skipped a beat. He reached for the door knob and twisted it. It was unlocked.  John raced in through the door.

John's eyes widened when he saw the area. It was a complete mess. Tooth brush, towels and other toiletries were knocked off from the cabinet and scattered across the floor. There were blood smears all over. The shower curtain wasn't closed and cold water was running freely from the shower. John’s knees buckled when he saw Sherlock fully dressed and lying unconscious on the bathtub floor with a large cut on his neck. He was soaking wet and his clothes were drenched in ice cold water and smeared blood.

John turned off the shower and grabbed a towel from the floor. He pressed it against Sherlock's neck and called his name. There was no reply. Sherlock's complexion had gone beyond white to an unhealthy shade of blue. John’s army doctor instincts kicked in. He quickly climbed into the tub and pressed an ear against Sherlock's chest. He hoped to hear a faint thumping noise but there was none. The doctor placed a hand in front Sherlock's nose. John squared his jaws. Sherlock Holmes was not breathing.

John's brain clicked into auto pilot. He sprung to his feet, jumped out of the tub, efficiently dragged Sherlock out and eased him down on the floor. A fresh trickle of blood ran from his neck but ignored it. It was a flesh wound. John placed the heel of his hands in the middle of Sherlock’s chest, pressed down and released. He repeated this compression movement several dozen times for the next half a minute.

John cursed to himself. He had completely underestimated the state of Sherlock's malnutrition. Calcium, sodium, potassium…Sherlock wasn't getting enough of it. Sherlock mentioned having chest pains earlier that day. He also remembered the unnaturally quick pulse. Sherlock's heart had been racing mad for hours with an empty gas tank. Electrolyte imbalances caused the cardiac arrest. Why hadn't John put two and two together? Shame on you. He told himself as he continued the chest compression.

He stopped the movement for a second, tilted Sherlock's head back to clear the airway. He bent over Sherlock's face and pinched his nose. John took a deep breath and pressed his mouth against Sherlock's cold lips and breathed out. He drew his mouth away. He saw Sherlock's chest slowly sink. John pushed away the matted, wet curls. He cupped Sherlock's ice cold face and breathed out into his mouth again until his lungs ached. John lifted himself up and gasped for air. "Come on, Sherlock, please come back." He pleaded under his breath. There was no reply.

John went back to the compression movement again. The last time he did a CPR was when he was in Afghanistan, where the sun beaten sand was soaked with his comrades’ blood. He knew from experience that pleading never helps. How many times had he done this to his friends in the field, how many times had he pleaded for them to breathe, only to find his hopes betrayed? Tears welled up in John's eyes but his blinked them back. After several more urging pushes, he adjusted Sherlock's head and pressed his mouth against the unconscious man's again. He closed his eyes tightly and exhaled. Just when John thought of going back to the compression movement, there was a sharp inhale and a weak cough. John suppressed his urge to collapse over Sherlock's drenched body in relief. Instead, he peered down at Sherlock with a stern expression. Sherlock took several gulps of air before he slowly opened his eyes. They were unfocused at first but swiveled towards Johns and locked gazes.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"John,"

John let out a sigh in reply. Sherlock tried to sit up but John held him down. The doctor gave him several more seconds for Sherlock to catch his breath and relax while he briskly dried his face, neck, and arms. Sherlock was too weak to support his body so John scooted him up against the wall.

"Stay there." He murmured as he ran back to grab a fresh set of clothes and a large towel. Sherlock scanned the mess with a blank expression. John returned shortly and helped Sherlock take off his shirt. The doctor dried the thin body and cleaned Sherlock's neck wound with cotton. The two didn't utter a single word.

Sherlock was weak, dazed, and had a faraway look in his eyes but still had the energy to pull on the dry shirt by himself. He stood up wearily and changed his trousers and undergarment while John fetched a glass of water. The wound on his neck had stopped bleeding. He slumped back onto the blood smeared floor. His eyes lazily drifted towards the razor abandoned in the corner of the room. Sherlock tried to make sense of the situation. Had he been hallucinating? How long had he been unconscious? How long had he not been breathing?

John returned and crouched in front of Sherlock. He offered the glass to him silently. Sherlock weakly grasped the glass but he didn't drink from it immediately. He stared back at John with his fatigued, sunken eyes. John returned the gaze and waited patiently for Sherlock to drink. The army doctor’s mouth was drawn into a tight, thin line and the posture was composed but Sherlock knew that John's hands would fly out immediately if Sherlock was in need of assistance. Sherlock raised the glass and tilted water into his mouth just enough to moisten his lips and tongue. Was he still hallucinating? Was this really John?

John's mind slowly switched back to his usual self and questions started to erupt inside him. How did Sherlock end up with the cut? What is the detective thinking right now? Sherlock looked just as confused.

"I…didn't hurt you, did I?" Sherlock asked slowly. His voice was slightly raspy. John shook his head.

"You gave me quite a fright though."

John's gaze wandered toward the cut on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock noticed and placed the glass down onto the floor.

"John," he began quietly. A pained, troubled look was on the detective's face. "I'm losing control." John took a moment to make sense of what Sherlock was trying to say. "You're not me, are you?" A concerned look flashed across John's face.

"What?"

"You're not Jim, either?"

Jim, there goes that name again. John searched for a hint of delirium in Sherlock's eyes but they only showed fatigue and pain. John took a deep breath and decided to play along with Sherlock's troubling remark.

"What happened there?" He asked, indicating the cut. There was a slight pause as Sherlock broke his eye contact.

"I did this to myself." John blinked. "My other self." Sherlock added.

"Who?"

"He escaped my mind palace." Sherlock scanned the walls and flicked his gaze out towards the door and the corridor outside. John was completely lost. He gently held Sherlock's shoulders but Sherlock shrugged away from it.

"It hurts."

"Sorry."

"You haven't seen Jim anywhere have you?" Sherlock asked casually. John's eyes widened.

"Sherlock, I think you should-"

"Have you?" Sherlock insisted. John closed his mouth and shook his head. Sherlock grunted and slowly got to his feet. He stumbled forward.

"Who is this Jim person?" John asked cautiously as he escorted the tall man to his bedroom.

"Jim Moriarty." Sherlock answered blankly. An uncomfortable chill ran down John's body. "I need him, John." John didn't even ask for an explanation. He realized that Sherlock was right. He really was losing control.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another glimpse into Sherlock's past, in which he realizes the price of love.  
> Emotional and physical pain ensues.

The next few hours were a nightmare for Sherlock and John. Immense pain in the abdomen and lower body area attacked Sherlock in the evening. When John came into the bedroom, Sherlock was writhing in pain, tangled in his bed sheets and sweating heavily. John was amazed at how Sherlock managed to deal with the pain by just clenching his teeth. He didn't utter a single audible moan or a groan. The moment he realized John had entered the room, Sherlock shook his head and twisted his face into an even more pained expression. He waved away John's hand and pushed him away from the bed. Then, he pulled the duvet up so it would conceal his whole body from the doctor's view. John understood the message and exited the room. He stood by the door worryingly and waited until the stifled groan of agony ceased.

John was slightly offended by how Sherlock firmly refused his assistance. Once the pain attacks calmed down, John slipped into the bedroom and wiped sweat away from his friend’s face and gave him something to drink. Sherlock's blood pressure rose and fell. His breathing was heavy and wheezy. In short, Sherlock was in a dangerously unstable state.

Waves of muscular pain and intestinal cramps came once in every one or two hours. As the hours flew by, Sherlock's exhaustion became more evident. Every time John visited the bedroom, the man was weaker than before. He spoke less. He barely reacted to John's words. Later on, he only received a weak nod or a shake of a head at best.

Sherlock refused to sleep. He would lie still with his eyes open for hours. He moved restlessly in his bed. In other times, he bolted upright, paced around the room and retired back to his bed when the dizziness or the muscle cramps kicked in. John offered something to help Sherlock go to sleep but he merely shook his head and stared at the ceiling. It was nearly two in the morning.

"Then can I at least sit beside you tonight?" John asked wearily. Sherlock's eyes flicked toward John. He could tell from the look in Sherlock's eyes that it was clearly a no. "Okay," He muttered. "But I'll be checking up on you once a while." And he left Sherlock’s room.

This wasn't Sherlock's first time to combat drug addiction. He experienced in-house detox once and another at a rehabilitation center, but there were several new factors this time which troubled Sherlock greatly.

The first factor was Jim. Every single brain cell screamed for Jim, and the only way to see him again was another dose of heroin. Sherlock shook his head. Jim is Moriarty. He tried to reason with himself but the warm embrace and the soothing atmosphere Jim provided was so different from the Moriarty in real life. Despite the same physical appearance, Sherlock refused to view Jim as an enemy.

Then there was the hallucination. If someone asked which one was more dangerous, Jim or logical Sherlock, Sherlock would answer logical Sherlock without a doubt.

Finally, there was John Watson. Sherlock had been trying hard to keep John away from his drug-addled past. John was a good doctor and a friend. Sherlock could tell John is itching to help. Sherlock smiled to himself. Good old John Watson. He appreciated the concern but he couldn't allow him to get too close.

…

The very first time Sherlock tampered around with recreational drugs was when he was researching about narcotics. It was a completely scientific motive. It was nearly a year later, when he deliberately injected heroin for a personal motive. That was how it all went downhill.

Victor Trevor was a young man with whit, energy, and academic passion in law that Sherlock admired. When they first met at Sydney Sussex College, they dived into a lengthy discussion on criminal law at the great hall. Ever since, for the first two years of his university life, Sherlock had a companion called Victor.

Sherlock strolled down the courtyard just like he always did in the early evening to stimulate his mind. On lazy weekends, he would even take a stroll out of campus and to the lakeside. He took the usual route at his usual pace, and made his way towards their favorite bench. Victor was already waiting there, reading a book and revising for his next seminar. Victor was the one who introduced Sherlock to the wonders of the criminology. Eventually, Sherlock tied it into his degree in chemical engineering and delved into the world of forensic science.

“Sherlock,” Victor smiled up at him and snapped his text book shut. Sherlock smiled back at him and flopped himself next to Victor. Every time he sat next to Victor, Sherlock had the urge to intertwine his fingers with Victor’s or brush his feet against Victor’s ankle. It was an urge he had learned to suppress. Sherlock dismissed his slightly un-platonic affection towards Victor as his overwhelming joy of finally having a friend who understood him. And Sherlock understood Victor as well. Victor was straight. He had a girlfriend. Victor deemed their friendship as strictly platonic. Sherlock was fine with that.

“I heard you almost made your tutor cry the other day.” Victor said with a crooked smile. Sherlock shrugged.

“I suppose she found my words a bit harsh.”

“What did you say to her, exactly?”

“That just because she called off her engagement doesn’t mean she can cancel our tutorial two weeks in a row. Obviously, she went on a clubbing splurge for 8 days in a row to hunt down some single men. Hardly a good excuse to have my experiment assessment postponed.” Sherlock sighed and shook his head in disappointment. Victor laughed.

“It’s not nice to make a girl cry.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. “Although I shouldn’t be talking myself.” Victor murmured. Sherlock blinked.

“Why?” He asked blankly. Victor let out sigh and grimaced.

“I broke up with Ellie.” Sherlock blinked some more.

“But I thought you were going to take her back home this summer.”

“Yeah well, all the sudden I started to feel she’s not the one.” Sherlock felt a something churn inside of him as Victor looked back at him with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry to hear that,” Sherlock said politely but rather unconvincingly.

Several weeks went by with the two of them busy with assignments and Sherlock momentarily forgot about the fact that Victor was not with Ellie anymore. It was one day, near the end of the term, when Victor visited Sherlock’s room with a pack of beer that Victor asked whether Sherlock has ever been to Norfolk.

“The coast is not far from my place.” Victor drawled as the two took a swig of beer, congratulating themselves for surviving another hectic week of revision. “Want to come over this summer and go sailing?” Sherlock looked at Victor over his beer bottle with a look of surprise. His heart leaped in his chest.

“Of course, I’d…love to.” Sherlock managed to blurt at last and grinned.

Sherlock had never been so excited before. He knew that Victor had not invited Sherlock to his home in the same sense as he had Ellie, but it made Sherlock harder to store away the urge that was churning inside him. There were many nights where Victor and Sherlock spent late nights at the library to study together. Sherlock caught himself wanting to nuzzle his head against Victor’s shoulder as they huddled over the table. Victor was becoming harder to resist as the holiday came closer.

Sherlock and Victor left directly for Norfolk as soon as the term ended. The Trevors were kind enough to host Sherlock for a month. It was one of the best moments of Sherlock’s life. He and Victor delved into the world of criminology and spent the days wandering around the city, entertaining themselves with various sports activities, and pleasant drinks at night. Sherlock was given a room separate to Trevor but often times, the two ended up staying awake until dawn, huddled up in the same room like little kids in a sleepover. One day, Sherlock woke up snuggled against Victor. Victor’s arm was wrapped around Sherlock’s. He didn’t mind that.  

The sailing was a two night event which took place at the end of Sherlock’s stay in Norfolk. The Trevors owned a large sailing boat and Victor knew how to operate the vessel so the two decided to venture out. As they drove out to the port, Victor hummed merrily. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled to himself. The weather was perfectly clear skies and the sea breeze had a nice smell of salt and sun. The two loaded the boat up with food and drinks and set sail. Sherlock had never felt so peaceful and safe as he gazed out the boat and watched the sun dip under the horizon with a gentle shimmer of orange and red.

The two enjoyed a lazy evening with wine and nibbles as they relaxed on the couch seat. The boat rocked gently, as if to be cradling the two young men. They sat together like they always did at that courtyard bench. Sherlock can’t remember what exactly they were talking about then. It must have been some kind of innocent drabble about politics, which was more of Victor’s turf than Sherlock’s. Sherlock didn’t mind though. Victor seemed to be having a nice time and Sherlock didn’t mind listening to his friend’s philosophy on international law. Before he knew it, Sherlock was running the back of his hand along Victor’s arm. Victor didn’t seem to mind. He smiled and continued talking. Suddenly, Sherlock became aware of how close they were sitting together. Their shoulders and knees were touching each other. Warmth radiated off Victor and the vibration he felt every time his friend spoke was relaxing. Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed as he leaned his head against Victor’s shoulder. Victor kept speaking for another minute or two and when he finished his sentence, he finally realized that Sherlock was dozing off. He laughed and poked Sherlock's cheek gently.

“Sherlock” Victor whispered softly. Sherlock hummed again. “Don’t leave me hanging here.”

Sherlock opened his eyes a crack and lifted his head. He was surprised to find Victor’s face closer to his than he had expected. Victor smiled warmly. The twinkle in his eyes and the slight dimple on his left cheek made his friend look more boyish than ever. It was then that Sherlock made his decision, which he will come to regret for the rest of his life. He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips against Victor’s. There was a moment of silence as Victor tensed. Sherlock’s heart was beating fast. Victor’s hand slowly stretched up to Sherlock’s arm and gently squeezed. A few seconds later, when Sherlock showed no sign of releasing his lips, Victor tightened his grip around Sherlock’s arm and peeled him away. Sherlock looked up, expecting Victor to be smiling back at him. He wasn’t.

“I think you had too much, mate.” Victor said slightly briskly and helped Sherlock up. They both knew that neither of them had been drinking that much. The only thing that was swaying tipsily was the boat.

After that holiday, Sherlock never saw Victor Trevor ever again. As Victor dissolved from his life, heroin, cocaine, marihuana emerged to fill up the hole that was created inside of Sherlock.

Love, Sherlock pondered. He couldn't understand it. If anything, it was nothing but a disadvantage to have.

….

John rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. It was almost 6 in the morning. Nearly 48 hours since Sherlock's last dosage. Hoping that his flat mate was sleeping soundly, he lifted himself from the couch and slowly cracked open Sherlock's bedroom door. It was dead silent. John peeked inside and saw Sherlock lying face up on the bed. His chest was rising and falling. John took a step in and froze at the spot.

Sherlock's eyes were open. He seemed to be lost in deep thought and didn't notice John. He was staring up at the ceiling with a troubled look in his eyes, and from his light blue eye trickled a single tear. It rolled down his cheekbone and disappeared somewhere along the jaw line. Sherlock Holmes was crying. The doctor held his breath and slowly took a step back and quietly closed the door. He turned and leaned back against the bedroom door and breathed in deeply. He had seen Sherlock cry before. They were all fake tears. Sherlock can manifest short gasps, bloodshot eyes and quivering lips in a second. He had used this method to trick many people, but John had never seen Sherlock really cry before. The closest he got was when they were on the Baskerville case when Sherlock had been unknowingly drugged with fear gas, but nothing was anything like what he had just witnessed.

…

Sherlock's mind was bursting with thoughts all the time. It's been like that ever since he was a child. Shutting his brain down was a strange unique experience. Sherlock stopped seeing things. It was as if he had lost a limb. He learned what ordinary was actually like. Boring, yes. Soothing, yes. And being ordinary wasn't so bad. Drugs even seemed to improve his socialization skills. He ventured out to find a new friend. He should have stopped there, but he couldn’t. Every time the effect of the drug ebbed away, his brain started whirring back to life, Sherlock wanted to run away. God, how did he even manage to cope with this his whole life? Thoughts and ideas pounced at him out of nowhere. Everything was too loud and too vivid. Sherlock kept on bouncing in between drug induced sense of calm assurance and disordered buzzing in his brain enhancing the stinging feeling of loss and regret. Sherlock kept on feeding himself drugs in hopes that someday the pain will wade away. And then he appeared.

Sherlock was meditating in his mind palace one day. Back in those days, it was half its present size and the files were more cluttered. Just when he was organizing them with his logical counterpart, a figure emerged out of nowhere.

_And then you decided to destroy me._

The voice said a familiar voice in a cold, accusing tone. Sherlock turned towards the voice with a start. The logical Sherlock was standing at the doorway with a dark look on his face. Sherlock sat up and edged away from his imaginary counterpart.

"I wasn't going to destroy you. I just wanted you to take a break." Sherlock answered cautiously. The other Sherlock didn't change his expression. He merely gazed down at him with a steely look in his eyes. "Where's Jim?" An annoyed look flashed across the imaginary Sherlock's face.

"You don't need him."

"Yes I do." An awkward pause hung in the bedroom. The logical Sherlock took a deep breath and let out a sigh.

"You were doing fine without him for the past few years."

"Where is he?" Sherlock pressed. The other Sherlock bit his upper lip and bent over. Sherlock thought the man was going to grab his shoulders again and he flinched. He expected his long fingers to wrap around the base of Sherlock’s neck but it didn't come. Instead, the logical Sherlock sat on the bed side chair and studied Sherlock with his sharp eyes. Sherlock waited for his counterpart to open his mouth.

"Do you know why I'm out here with you?" He started slowly. There was a hint of tiredness in his deep voice. Sherlock frowned. The logical Sherlock threw a disappointed look at him. It was one of those looks an adult would make when taunting a child. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to concentrate. The gears turned slowly and threatened to give Sherlock another painful head ache. The logical Sherlock waited patiently. Sherlock's eyes lit up as he finally came to a conclusion.

"Jim's inside my head." He remarked.

"Yes, in another words, he kicked me out." The logical Sherlock added irritably. "He's flooding your mind palace and tearing those files ups even as we speak." Sherlock laughed at this.

"I thought you were." Sherlock said with a puzzled expression. The other Sherlock rolled his eyes and snapped back,

"Why would I flood my own house, you idiot."

"I'm not an idiot." Sherlock growled.

"You bloody well are without me."

The two glared at each other for a full minute. It was the logical Sherlock who broke the eye contact. He slowly got to his feet and walked towards the window. He peeked outside through a small crack between the curtains.

"Hmph" He snorted. "Moriarty's smarter than I thought." He said flatly and turned to Sherlock. He flashed a wicked smile at him. "He's got you cornered."

…

John was sitting at his chair, his head nodding by the warm sun light when he heard footsteps tumbling noisily from Sherlock’s bedroom. He woke up with a start as Sherlock burst into the living room fully dressed. He still looked ill and his face was pale and clammy but there was attentiveness in his eyes that John haven't seen in a while. Sherlock strode towards the window and he cautiously took a peek outside. Then, he hurried to the next window and did the same.

"What are you doing?" John asked nervously.

"Moriarty," Sherlock breathed and rushed to the other window. He craned his neck to look further. "He's got the press on to us."

"What?"

"An anonymous tip saying that Sherlock Holmes is a drug addict. Wouldn't that make a wonderful story?" Sherlock said with a slightly irritated tone. John frowned. Was paranoia finally setting in on Sherlock? "I'm not paranoid or anything, by the way." Sherlock added as if he had read John's mind. John stared at his restless flat mate with a half opened mouth. Sherlock he beckoned John over to his side. John approached him hesitantly and craned his neck to see through the curtain crack.

"See that van over there and there?" Sherlock said and indicated an unfamiliar vehicle parked across the road. "That's been there since yesterday. And see that man walking down the road over there?" John nodded. "He's already walked past our flat three times in the past two hours."

"Jesus…" John breathed and looked up at Sherlock's pale face. Sherlock's attention was still pinned to the view outside. His eyes scanned the surroundings attentively.

"It's lucky I had a doctor for a flat mate. Imagine what the tabloids would have been like if you called an ambulance. 'Oh there goes another silly celebrity with drugs!'" Sherlock blurted out comically. John realized how much he had missed the manic and slightly annoying Sherlock. However, the way Sherlock pressed his right hand to his abs showed that the cramps and pain were still there. John also remembered that only a few hours ago, he Sherlock had been crying.

"Okay, Sherlock, but you’re still not well." He gently pulled on Sherlock's black jacket and gestured to his chair.

"I know. That's the problem!" Sherlock exclaimed and as if on cue, their flat's buzzer rang. They both turned to the door. Sherlock slapped his cheeks several times and turned to John. "How do I look?" John opened his mouth and closed them. Then he opened them again and answered uncomfortably,

"Horrible."

Sherlock didn't seem to hear it. He slapped his cheeks again to add some color to his face. Then, he bolted down the flight of stairs and opened the front door. John followed after him, still unable to understand where Sherlock's energy was coming from. The consulting detective opened the door swiftly. A casually dressed man with a cheap smile greeted them.

"Hi, Sherlock Holmes?" He asked. Sherlock straightened himself up and looked as in control as possible.

"Yes?" The man offered a hand to shake. Sherlock did not take it.

"I'm from the-"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't take interviews. Have a nice day" Sherlock said with an unnaturally friendly tone and a forced smile as he slammed the door shut in front of the man's face. John was completely lost. Sherlock walked past John and climbed up the stairs wearily.

"Why did you answer the door if you knew that he was from the press?"

"Because he works for Moriarty." Sherlock grunted as he reached the top of the stairs. "If I didn't the answer the door, he would have happily reported to Moriarty that I was sick." John entered the flat after Sherlock. Beads of sweat were starting to form on Sherlock's forehead. The surge of adrenaline ebbed away and Sherlock was once again enveloped in exhaustion. Sherlock's eyes rolled and he knees buckled. John yelped and barely managed to catch Sherlock's limp arms before he collapsed onto the floor.

"Sherlock," John called as he dragged him to the couch. Sherlock's consciousness had drifted away into his mind palace.

…

It was a catastrophe in here. The water level had risen so high that Sherlock barely had room to keep his head above water. He could touch the ceiling. The water was so cold that it made Sherlock's body ache. His thighs and forearms were getting numb and he didn't know how long he could keep his head above water. Sherlock spat water from his mouth and called out,

_Jim!_

There was no reply. Sherlock couldn't see well in the darkness.

_Jim, I know you're in here!_

He yelled again. Sherlock opened his mouth to call out his name again when he heard a faint voice echo in the distance. He strained his ears. Sherlock turned left and paddled clumsily towards the voice.

_Sherlock_

The voice was more audible than before. Sherlock mustered his remaining strength to claw through the thick swirling water. He saw a faint shadow in the distance. He quickened his pace.

_For god's sake, Jim, what's going on here?_

Sherlock exclaimed at the figure. Jim swam towards him and grabbed Sherlock's arm. A surge of comforting warmth ran through Sherlock. His teeth stopped chattering Sherlock could now see Jim's face clearly in the darkness. There was no way Jim was going to harm Sherlock. Jim was here to protect him. This whole mess must be some kind of a mistake. Surely, Jim can do something about it. Sherlock leveled his eyes with Jim's and said firmly,

_You need to get me out of here, Jim._

The water level kept on rising. Their heads were almost touching the ceiling. A smile flashed across Jim's face.

_Jim?_

Suddenly, the warmth swept away. Jim kept on smiling but his eyes widened.

_I can't do that, Sherlock._

Something suddenly grabbed Sherlock's legs and yanked him down. Sherlock opened his mouth and gasped but ended up sucking in water. His lungs stung. Sherlock wanted to cough the water out but it was too late. The darkness enveloped him. He wasn't in the water anymore. He was dry and he could breathe again. He could feel wind gushing through him and there was a strange, discomforting sensation in his stomach. Sherlock suddenly realized that he was falling down into pitch black space.

Sherlock screamed in agony when his body crashed into the dark surface. He spat blood out from his mouth. His head pounded and he heard a screeching noise in his ears. His limbs were immobile and it was as if every single bone in his body had been shattered. Even a twitch of a finger sent hot pain up through his wrist, arm and along his shoulder blades and spine. Every time he gasped for air, his lungs felt like they were going to explode. Sherlock couldn't lift his head so he swiveled his eyes wildly and scanned the area. He was back in his mind palace, except the water was gone and so were the drawers. Not a single scrap of paper was visible. The floor, walls and the ceiling were polished and pitch black. The lights were dim.

_Did you really think I was going to let you go that easily?_

A voice echoed. Footsteps approached Sherlock. Sherlock tensed his muscles. He couldn't move. Jim's face popped into Sherlock's view. The warm light in his hazel eyes were replaced by a wild blaze.

_Aw, are you hurt?_

A foot prodded Sherlock. The moment the shoes came in contact with Sherlock's skin, a stinging pain rippled through his body. Sherlock clenched his teeth. Then, there was another prod. Sherlock cried out in alarm. Tears welled up in his eyes and blurred his view.

_I'm asking you a question, Sherlock._

Jim roughly kicked Sherlock in the stomach. For a second, Sherlock thought he was going to pass out from the pain. He gulped for air and breathed desperately,

Jim knelt down beside Sherlock and cradled his limp hand up. The motion was gentle but the touch sent another burning sensation through Sherlock. He couldn't even scream. He just squeezed his eyes shut and writhed in pain. His fingers twitched and his shoulder shook.

_Do you want it to stop?_

Sherlock couldn't answer. He forgot how to use his vocal cords. He wheezed. Jim squeezed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock kicked his legs in agony, which sent a fresh new jolt of pain through his lower body.

_Come on._

Jim chimed joyfully. It sounded like he was cooing at a kitten.

Sherlock croaked. Jim let go of Sherlock's hand and let it fall on the floor. Sherlock screamed when his knuckles hit the surface. He twisted his torso in a clumsy attempt to crawl away from Jim.

_Shhhh_

Jim hissed and cupped Sherlock's sweaty face with his warm hands.

_If you want it to stop, say my name._

He whispered. Sherlock hesitated. His eyes stared weakly back at Jim. Sherlock was confused. What was going on? Was Jim helping him or was he hurting him? Jim’s face flickered for a moment and was replaced by a different face. Victor. A bead of sweat ran into Sherlock's eye and it stung. He blinked. He was staring back at Jim again. His head was still pounding and the muscles on his back felt like they were being ripped apart.

_J…Jim_

He stuttered. Jim's lips curled up and his eyes twinkled. The pain still remained.

_Again_

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. Victor’s face flashed in his head.

_Oh for fu-_

He began to swear but Jim grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. A scream echoed in the black vast facility.

_Jim!_

Jim loosened his grip and placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead.

_Good, now you know I'm the only help you can get._

The pain slowly started to ebb away. Sherlock shuddered and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

…

"Jim…Jim"

The tormented man finally relaxed when John placed a hand on his forehead. The creases in between his eye brows vanished and his short gasps slowed down. Sherlock was still murmuring Jim's name as if it was a spell to keep him safe from nightmares. The shivers slowly died down and Sherlock loosened his grip on John's sweater. Sherlock had grabbed the front of John's sweater and pulled him over with immense force, that it took great effort to keep from collapsing on to Sherlock's fragile body. The man's eyelids fluttered and they slowly opened.

"Jim?" Sherlock muttered again. John's face dropped.

"No, it's John." Sherlock closed his eyes again. He let go of John's sweater and let his hands drop to his side.

"John…" He murmured. Sherlock breathed in deeply and opened his eyes again. He looked straight back at him and said this time, more firmly,"John."

"Yes,"

"You…" Sherlock licked his lips. John waited patiently. He slipped his hand away from Sherlock's forehead. "Wait," The detective said quietly. He didn't have to say any more than that. John placed his hand back on Sherlock's forehead.

"You're the one that helped me." Sherlock said with wide eyes as if he had just made an incredible discovery. John laughed. Sherlock stared back at John with an incredulous look. His lips parted slightly. Then, his eyes dropped to his right hand knuckle where the plaster was still there. He slowly wrapped his trembling fingers around John's hand and gently pulled it away from his forehead. "Thank you."

John nodded in reply. Then, Sherlock slung his feet off the couch and planted it onto the floor. He leaned forward and his expression darkened. Sherlock clasped his hands together and bit his lips.

"How are you feeling?" John asked and handed Sherlock a glass of water. Sherlock gulped it down in one go. He placed the glass on the table and answered,

"Fine. How long was I out?"

"About three hours." Sherlock nodded. John watched as Sherlock's eyes bore into the floor. He knew that the detective was thinking about something frantically. He wondered what it was. Sherlock seemed to notice John's curiosity. He looked up. A fresh light lingered in Sherlock's silver blue eyes. That moment, John knew that the Sherlock Holmes he knew had finally returned.

"John," he started with a low firm voice. "There's something I need to do."

Sherlock started speaking slowly and steadily but as his explanation developed, his speech gained its usual speed and he started using long sophisticated words. John listened to every single one of his words intently and marveled at Sherlock's rapid recovery.

"When a person dwindles into drug addiction, they succumb to it both physically and psychologically. You being a doctor must understand the mechanism of it very well." Sherlock was seated at his chair with his knees tucked in in front of him. John noticed that instead of aligning the fingertips together like Sherlock usually did, his hands were clasped together and were slightly shaking.

"In order for me to solve this problem, I must break away from the pull of these two elements. Time will automatically solve the physical issue. I've handled worse." Sherlock shrugged. Then he frowned a little and thought about what he had just said. "Then again, I've never gone into cardiac arrest so that comment may be debatable. My main point is," Sherlock paused to take a breath. "I must overcome the psychological aspect in order to prevent myself from relapsing." John nodded. "This…this is not an easy task." Sherlock sighed. "It's never easy. No matter how many times I've experienced it" Sherlock smiled to himself weakly. "Moriarty sure is smart."

"And a bastard." John added. Sherlock looked out the window. The sun was starting to set.

"I have a feeling that tonight is going to be a particularly rough night." John's shoulders tensed. "Are you ready?"

“Yes.” Sherlock gazed back at his flat mate silently. The detective’s incredibly crystal blue eyes melted in with the orange flame of sinking sunlight and made his eyes almost look amber. Sherlock closed his eyes and pondered for a second.

"No, you know what, I can't let you-"He started but John cut him off with a firm voice.

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor. There's nothing you need to feel embarrassed ab-"

"If you think I'm too arrogant to show my weakness to you, you're mistaken." Sherlock lowered his eyes away from John. He bit his lower lip gently as he chose his words carefully. "I'm afraid that I would hurt you." He croaked. John smiled.

"Sherlock, so far the only way you've harmed me is by depriving me of sleep." Sherlock shook his head.

"Jim is me.” Sherlock licked his lips uncomfortably. "John, you helped me stay on track for the past few days. If it weren't for you, Moriarty would have savored his victory by now. Jim wants to get rid of you. Half of me wants to get rid of you."


	7. Chapter 7

After the sunset, the tremble in Sherlock’s hands worsened and he started to shuffle in his seat and massage his joints. John offered to help and Sherlock nodded at first but shook his head firmly as he changed his mind. John ignored his refusal and stretched out his hands but Sherlock jumped to his feet and stormed away to his room.

…

Sherlock was barely able to stand on his feet. He stumbled down the endless black aisle and fumbled to open the drawers. He thought as hard as he could to remember where he had left that file. He needed to find it and check before Jim came. He needed to see it with his own eyes. Sherlock rummaged through the neatly filed folders and pulled one out randomly. He scanned the contents and closed it briskly. He grimaced and grunted as he fought against the particularly annoying pain in his right shoulder. He awkwardly crouched down to check the bottom row when a voice called from behind him,

_What are you looking for?_

Sherlock turned around to see Jim standing across the aisle with his hands in his pockets. Jim's eyes still had that warm glow. Sherlock blinked and reminded himself that that same person had tortured him just a while ago in the middle of his mind palace. Jim took a step towards Sherlock. Suddenly, pain erupted in Sherlock's abdomen, as if his intestines were being squeezed. The consulting detective clutched his teeth and fell on his knees. Jim took another step forward. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his stomach and bent over with a muffled groan.

_You're not thinking of anything stupid, are you?_

Just when Jim was only a few paces away from him, Sherlock raised a hand in protest.

_Stop._

Jim didn't listen. He roughly grabbed Sherlock's neck and pushed his head against the drawers. The smile was still etched onto his face. Sherlock screamed. The moment he came in contact with Jim, his eardrums burned and his eyes watered from the searing pain that erupted from the top of his head. He clawed for Jim's hands but Jim didn't seem to care. He just cocked his head to one side and widened his eyes.

_I saved you, remember?_

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly and shook his head.

_Remember?_

Jim pressed on. Sherlock kept on shaking his head sideways. Jim tightened the grip on Sherlock's neck.

_Remember?_

…

The young man's coat was drenched in rain and he was freezing cold, but that was the least of his problems. Sherlock limped into his flat sluggishly and collapsed onto his knees. He stared at the wall across him with hollow eyes. Suddenly Sherlock wanted to destroy everything that was in his house, including the violin.

Sherlock learned to laugh merrily as he deduced people's nasty habits. He learned to keep his mouth shut even if knew that someone was cheating on someone. He learned to cry along with others even though he didn't feel anything whatsoever. It was hard work and usually left him exhausted at the end of the day but he still managed to belong in a fairly pleasant company of ordinary people. It was all going so well, until today.

It was almost like an over blown balloon that was ready to pop any time. Sherlock's seen too much. Sherlock was spending a night at the pub with his so-called friends, trying hard to display an interested look. He nodded and smiled, but his mind was darting back and forth through the crowd in the pub. Every single noise, laughter, looks, and fidgets. He lost track of his company's conversation. Sherlock panicked and that was when he exploded. He suddenly stood up, knocked over the drinks and started to blurt how Jimmy was sleeping with Ed's girlfriend. The man sitting diagonally behind them had just come back from a nasty road trip. Sebastian's sister was suspended from work. When the list finished, Sherlock was heaving at the table while everyone stared at him wide-eyed.

As soon as Sherlock realized what had happened, he grabbed his coat, darted out of the pub, and into the cold rain. Everything after that became blurry. He remember running down the street and ducking into the alley way. He roamed around in the cold, wet darkness for nearly an hour before he somehow managed to arrive near his flat.

He blew everything away that night. Stupid, stupid. He told himself. Why can't you just empty your mind? And just then, he realized that he had an extra stash of morphine kept in the shower room. He pulled off his coat and stumbled into the shower room.

…

Sherlock opened his eyes as another figure approached him swiftly and shook his shoulders violently.

_Wake up!_

He barked. It was the logical Sherlock gazing down at him.

_We don't have much time, get yourself together._

The logical Sherlock wrapped his arms around Sherlock and heaved him to his feet. Sherlock slouched against the drawer. The other Sherlock shook him again.

 _Sherlock, listen to me. Moriarty is going to come back anytime now_. We have to find that file, remember the plan?

Sherlock slowly lifted himself up and nodded. He stumbled sideways and opened a different drawer as the logical Sherlock supported his body. Sherlock shook his head and closed it. Then, he dragged his feet heavily towards the next aisle.

_I can't._

He wheezed and gulped for air.

_Think, where did you store it? It's a long time ago, I know, but we need to narrow the area down or we'll never-_

_Store what?_

The logical Sherlock snapped his head up from Sherlock. Jim had reappeared, but this time, he wasn't wearing his usual Westwood suit. He had the exact same attire as Sherlock, with the velvet shirt and a slim cut black jacket and trousers. They were all tailored to fit Jim. He pinched the front of his shirt and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

_How do I look?_

Suddenly, Sherlock felt nauseated from the grotesque view.

_Fashionable_

The logical Sherlock replied in a sour tone.

_So,_

Jim boomed his voice and looked back and forth at the two Sherlocks.

_We're all back now are we?_

The logical Sherlock stepped in between the sweat drenched consulting detective and the ill-dressed consulting criminal. Sherlock closed his eyes and frantically tried to remember where he had left that file.

_Get out of here, Moriarty._

_Oh, it all depends on what Sherlock wants._

Jim shrugged. Sherlock tried to block Jim's voice and racked his head for a hint to help his search. He dragged himself away from the two figures. Jim approached Sherlock but was shortly blocked by the logical Sherlock. Jim flashed a cheeky smile. Then, he struck.

The logical Sherlock promised Sherlock that he would buy time. Sherlock couldn't believe that after all the time used to organize this place; he couldn't remember the location of one damned file. It was such a long time ago when it happened, and he was too weak to think straight. When did it happen again? Sherlock asked himself. He remembered that it was before he met John, but shortly after he met Lestrade. Lestrade! Of course, how could I have forgotten about that man? Sherlock's eyes widened as he dived for the aisle located on the far left. It was the very last place he wanted to go in the current state, but he will have to risk it.

…

John monitored Sherlock's pulse and temperature as the consulting detective groaned and muttered gibberish in his sleep. He let out a couple painful screams and made John worry about Mrs. Hudson coming upstairs to check on them. Just when the doctor leaned forward to wipe sweat from Sherlock’s forehead, Sherlock's eyes suddenly snapped open. Hands flew towards John and long fingers wrapped around John's neck.

…

Just when Sherlock reached the aisle on the very far side of the mind palace, he heard a yelp from a distance. Jim grabbed the logical Sherlock's shoulders and slammed him against the drawer. The logical Sherlock kicked at Jim but no matter how hard he struck, Jim didn't budge. Sherlock knew that it was only a matter of seconds before Jim knocked his internal self out and came running after him.

The consulting detective opened two drawers at a time and rummaged through. He hadn't visited this section in a very, very long time. They were bitter memories, the ones he wanted to throw away but were too large to be disposed. They were the type of files that Jim treasured the most. It was the memory of Sherlock's life as a junkie. He skimmed through some of the contents and winced. Unpleasant words popped out. "Overdose", "rehabilitation", "multiple charges", "fine", "excused", "monitoring", "danger night", "mixed addiction". He shook his head and tried not to remember the details of each file.

_Being a naughty boy?_

Sherlock ignored the footsteps closing in. Jim had gotten rid of logical Sherlock faster than he had anticipated. Sherlock threw the files onto the floor and didn't care to put them back. Jim's footsteps stopped. Sherlock opened another file and let out a sigh of relief. He found it. The title said 2004 September-December. Sherlock opened the file and flipped through the pages. Yes, he knew it. It must be here somewhere. Just then a hand clasped onto Sherlock's shoulder. He tensed his body and turned around.

_Did you find it?_

It was logical Sherlock. Sherlock let out another sigh of relief and turned back to the file.

Yes, it must be here somewhere…

A drop of sweat traveled down the side of his face and splashed onto the file. Another seeped into Sherlock's left eye. He blinked the stinging sensation away.

_It was in mid-November I think. There, I found it._

Sherlock tapped the page and handed it to his internal self. The other Sherlock narrowed his eyes and craned his neck as he scanned through the content. A smile broke across his face. Suddenly, Sherlock knew something was wrong. The file fell to the floor, and Sherlock was pinned to the floor.

…

John gawked and tried to pry himself away from Sherlock but the skinny man was stronger than expected. The grip tightened.

"Sherlock…!" John wheezed and grasped at Sherlock's hands. Sherlock's eyes were covered in a veil of confusion and fear. John lifted himself away from Sherlock and rolled off the bed. Sherlock didn't let go and the two toppled to the floor. John landed on his back with Sherlock on top. The final breath of air in John's lungs escaped him. His head pounded and his legs kicked the air frantically. He tried to wriggle out of Sherlock's weight but the consulting detective had his knees straddle around John and refused to let go. John looked up at Sherlock. Everything was becoming blurry.

…

Sherlock found himself face to face with himself. Their faces were merely an inch away from each other. His shoulders were pinned firmly onto the dark floor. Sherlock felt his strength seeping away, but he fought hard to keep his eyes opened.

_You're are afraid._

Sherlock barely had the strength to shake his head weakly. He slowly reached for the discarded file on the floor.

_You worry that the only reason everyone sticks around you is because you're useful._

_That's the truth._

The other Sherlock seemed mildly surprised by this reply and blinked down upon him. Then, he smiled.

_Trying to be tough, I see._

Sherlock's fingers brushed against the corner of the file. He tugged it towards him slowly.

_You're tired. You want to be ordinary. That's what you always wanted._

Suddenly, a smile broke across Sherlock's sweat drenched face. The other Sherlock furrowed his brow. Sherlock started to chuckle mockingly at his copy and it gradually grew into a cold laughter.

_Ordinary? Who wants to be ordinary? Oh, Jim, how can you not understand?_

His reflection's face darkened.

_What?_

Sherlock grinned back at Jim.

_You really think that I work for a cheap reward like acceptance? No, it’s the thrill of being above others._

Sherlock snarled coldly at him.

_No ordinary man can have that._

…

"What did you just say?" Lestrade gaped at the young, skinny man with an incredulous look. Sherlock Holmes, who was now a frequently visitor of the drugs division, had stormed across the corridor and into the homicide division. He swayed, eyes were droopy, and looked like a complete drunk, but what tumbled out from his mouth was incredible. Sherlock tapped Lestrade's forehead with his long index finger and leaned over Lestrade's desk.

"I said," He slurred. "You got the wrong man. Obviously, he has an alibi."

"But you don't even know the details of this case!"

"I've heard enough from the room next door." The young man snapped. An officer approached Sherlock from behind and grabbed his arm. Sherlock shrugged away. "I still have a few words to say to this idiot." Sherlock growled. Normally, Lestrade would let the officer escort the young man away and dismiss him as a deranged junkie. Then, he would drop a complaint to the drugs division but this time, Lestrade held his hand up in protest.

"Wait," he looked into Sherlock's eyes and studied him. "What else have you got for me?" Sherlock's eyes lit up. The effect of the drug had suddenly evaporated from his system.

…

The strength in Sherlock's limbs returned and look of dread spread across the other Sherlock's face. Sherlock pushed the form away and got to his feet. Jim took a step away from Sherlock and slipped into the next aisle.

_I can't believe you tried to make me believe that rubbish. Though, if it weren't for that file, I would have been completely fooled._

Sherlock called out as he tracked Jim down. He saw a glimpse of a shadow at the very end of the hall.

_Me wishing to be ordinary? That was years ago, Moriarty._

The lights flickered and the floor started to lighten up. He saw Jim sprinting away from the bright light. Sherlock darted after the man and caught up with him easily. Jim was back into his original form, with his Westwood attire. His hazel eyes were wide with surprise. Sherlock threw his hands at Jim's neck and tightened his grip as the two toppled to the floor.

…

John's eyesight grew darker. He couldn't raise his limbs up anymore. He was slipping away. He wished Sherlock would snap out of it. He tapped his fingers against Sherlock's wrist. He closed his eyes. His lungs felt like it was about to explode.

…

Jim was slipping away. Sherlock grimaced as he tightened the grip. Just when he was about to lean his body weight onto Jim's windpipe, the lights flickered violently above and he saw a flash of John's face instead of Jim's. Sherlock widened his eyes in surprise but he shook his head and held on tightly. Jim was playing a trick on him. He couldn't fall for it. Not again.

_SHERLOCK!_

A voice exclaimed and someone grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and violently flung him to the side. It was the logical Sherlock. Sherlock gaped at him and shoved him away.

_What are you doing?_

He yelled and scrambled towards Jim but froze. He was gone. Sherlock looked around. The mind palace was back to its original state. The lights shined brightly above and everything was white. Everything was silent.

_Moriarty's gone, Sherlock. That was his last attempt to hurt you. You almost fell for it._

…

John wheezed in gulps of air and coughed.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed and jumped off him. “Are you alright?” John wheezed for a few more seconds with a red face before he rolled to his side and grumbled,

"I’m fine.”

Sherlock stared down at his flat mate and then at his hands. Then, he started to pace around the bed in a mild state of panic.

"I knew I shouldn't have. I’m so sorry."

"Sherlock,"

"I didn’t realize-“

"Sherlock," John said more firmly and grabbed his flat mate's long arm. Sherlock stared back at John with an apologetic look. It was almost funny to see Sherlock panic. It was good to know that Sherlock had caring feelings after all. "I'm okay." He said. Sherlock blinked. His eyes searched John's face silently. John's neck was slightly red but not enough to leave a bruise. He pointed at it with a blank expression.

"Want me to call an ambulance?" He said jokingly.

…

Three months later, Sherlock tread down the long lines of his treasured archive randomly, but he stopped his feet when he came to an unfamiliar row.

_I decided to make some additions to our collection._

His other self said as he popped into view. Sherlock opened the drawer and peeked inside. His eyes widened with surprise.

_That's very unusual of you._

The other Sherlock shrugged.

_I thought some improvement could be made._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, grabbed a file that read, _Friends._


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite all that's happened, Sherlock falls back to drugs.

As Sherlock gazed at the newly-wed Watsons waltz to his music, a strange cocktail of emotions erupted inside of him. His chest felt like it was being torn apart. It was an effort to keep a straight face and a steady hand as he sawed at the violin. He knew that just because John and Mary got married didn't mean anything was going to change. John had assured him of that. But at the same time, this meant that their relationship will go no further than friendship. Although, Sherlock had given up on that prospect long time ago. He could not make the same mistake again. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for John and Mary. He also got to be John’s best man. All is fine. All is great, in fact.

The darker feelings began to engulf him as he strode out of the party and into the night. The high from apprehending the cameraman had ebbed away a long time ago. He wished there was another case he could jump right into.

He could have taken a cab straight to Baker Street but he thought he needed some fresh air. He told the cab driver to drop him off a bit short of Knightsbridge, and strolled around the area aimlessly. It wasn’t after a few minutes that he realized that this used to be one of the many hangouts in his junkie days. He wondered if the wretched ruin of a building was still there.

He walked for an hour. He had already untied his wedding suit tie and stuck it into his coat pocket. Sherlock wandered into the darker corners of London town and stared blankly at the open space and the familiar building that lingered at the end of it. After all those years, it was still there. Sherlock grimaced and shook his head. Why did he just walk an hour around London just to see this old building? He turned back for the main road to pick up a cab and go back to Baker Street.

Less than a month later, Sherlock was staring at the grimy wall with a muddled thought. This was all for a case. He told himself and rubbed the crook of his left arm gently. He wondered what John is doing now. Probably working at his clinic with Mary, doing some ordinary people stuff. He wondered if Magnussen had already noticed what Sherlock was doing. That man has a sense of smell of a shark. Surely, he must have caught a whiff of rumor that Sherlock was going in and out of a drug den for the past few days. Should Sherlock stop? No, he told himself. Not yet.

...

Mycroft was well aware of Sherlock's drug habits. He knew that something must have gone wrong that summer. Sherlock looked haggard when he came back to his parent's house for Christmas. Mycroft ushered Sherlock to the farthest corner of the house and crossed his arms.   
  
"What happened?" He asked calmly. Sherlock stuck his hands in his pocket and broke eye contact with Mycroft. "You have to stop. Do you understand?" Sherlock merely nodded. 

A year later, Mycroft received a phone call from a hospital regarding Sherlock's health. Apparently Sherlock had collapsed on campus and was rushed to the nearest hospital. He was pumped full of cocaine. The idiot had changed the emergency contact from his parents to Mycroft to keep his drug habit a secret from them. Mycroft abandoned everything at his work place and hurried to Cambridge. 

4 hours later, Mycroft found Sherlock on the hospital bed, looking worse than ever. Deathly thin, pale, and disheveled, and his eyes had a dark glint to it that showed paranoia and grief. Sherlock looked back at his brother shamefully and said in a hushed tone,   


"I can't stop." 

...

Sherlock breathed in slowly and lied back down on the filthy mattress. This was all for a case. He was in control. Even if the drug ate him away inside out, what is there in this world apart from boredom and solitude? He thought of crawling away into his mind palace but he couldn’t open the door. Instead, he stared at the dark corner of the room and let the drug consume his mind and body. He dreamed of a different life where he and Trevor cuddled up against each other on that night on that boat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this story. I hope you enjoyed it.  
> It was quite a fortunate coincidence when in HLV, there was a sequence where it was revealed that Sherlock keeps a Moriarty in his mind palace.  
> I added the Victor Trevor element because the older version of the story had a somewhat unconvincing back story to what made Sherlock put his hands on drugs.  
> I'd like to think that if it weren't for his unfortunate turn of events with Victor, Sherlock would have acted more truly to his heart and confessed his feelings to John earlier.


End file.
